


Her Empire

by ChocDog



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Military, Commander Lexa, D/s, Doctor Clarke, Drug Use, F/F, Fine Stud Lexa, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, I keep adding tags goddamit, Jealousy, Minor Character Death, Modern Era, Possession, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Power Dynamics, Slow Burn, Smut, Strangers to Lovers, both of them. it's war yo, clarke and lexa are badasses in war together, like reallyyyy slow
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-23
Updated: 2018-05-17
Packaged: 2018-12-18 15:37:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 37,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11877582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChocDog/pseuds/ChocDog
Summary: Out of the 100 Prisoners of Arkadia selected to serve the Army of Polis, there's one that Military Commander Lexa just can't keep her eyes off of. A former rebel with an attitude, she's everything Lexa is supposed to have a low tolerance for, but there's something in her confidence, in her beauty, that has Lexa willing to pardon everything she does.She is different.But with the Arkadian Uprising threatening to overthrow Polis at any minute, and the Ice Nation's forces growing stronger than ever, The Commander's shaky relationship with a Cadet becomes increasingly dangerous, for both parties involved.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UPDATED: Continuity error regarding Jake, fixed ✔

The recruits were sitting in tightly packed rows on cheap, foldable chairs when she first walked in. Immediately, all eyes were on her; The tight, black jacket and formal necktie underneath it, complimented by an impressive collection of medals of almost every colour pinned above the chest-pockets. 

Her uniform, gold-trimmed and tailor-made, was infinitely more impressive than that of any other soldier in the room, even the Major-General; who was only different to the cadets in the cross-sword emblem that was stitched onto her jacket sleeve, a symbol of rank.

Her brunette locks were pulled back into tight braids to show off a stern but beautiful face, her pace slow and each step calculated, hands clasped behind her back and chin held high.

She slowly came to a still next to the General, who was standing at the front of the room, turned to address the assembly of recruits before her. Behind her was a large, blank projector screen, indicating this was likely used as a meeting room when it wasn’t full of delinquents. 

 

“Rise for your Commander.” General Indra barked, and all the chairs in the room squeaked in response as they were pushed out in a collective stand-up.

 

The Commander turned slowly to the recruits and scanned each individual face, ensuring every single one out of the one-hundred of them received a brief but memorable glare. When her gaze settled on Clarke, the blonde did her best not to tremble like she knew everyone else had. She would not be intimidated this early.

 

When she was finished analyzing the faces of her Army’s newest members, The Commander offered them a small nod in greeting, before waving a hand in Indra’s direction.

 

“Attention Cadets!” The dark-skinned woman bellowed. “You may sit!”

 

They sat.

 

“In a moment, you will receive the division in which you will work to repent for your crimes. The Army of Polis needs recruits but Arkadia can’t spare the manpower so we took you in. Don’t think that this makes you free. You are still prisoners until we pardon you and you are still subject to Polis law. Is that clear?”

 

A collective ‘Yes Ma’am’ rippled across the hundred. 

 

Indra nodded. “Good. Next. The division you are assigned to is your division until you either die or are dismissed for some other reason. Any negotiations will be met with swift denial. Any further negotiations that prove to be critical will be considered, and then likely denied again.”

 

“Yes Ma’am.”

 

Without looking away from the recruits, Indra held and expected hand out to her right, which one of the camo-clad soldiers that guarded the exits quickly approached. Clarke noticed the girl next to her, Octavia, visibly fidget at the sight of him; the blonde knew her brother had volunteered for the military a few months ago, she must have finally spotted him.

 

“Who is that?” Clarke whispered.

 

“My brother.” Octavia confirmed, not looking away from him. “Bellamy.”

 

Bellamy presented Indra with a clipboard, which she snatched from him without even meeting his gaze. “When you hear your division don’t move. You’ll be given instructions at the end of the assembly.”

 

The General looked down at the document in her hands that held each and every one of the Delinquents futures in it. “Octavia Blake, Combat. Finn Collins, Combat. Glen Dickson, Combat. Clarke Grif-“

 

Indra paused her rambling suddenly, her eyes narrowing in confusion. Hushed whispers spread across the recruits, as well as more than a comfortable amount of looks cast in Clarke’s direction.

 

“Quiet.” The Commander ordered suddenly, and the noise died like someone had shot it. She took the clipboard from Indra, scanning over it until she found the source of confusion.

 

**GRIFFIN, CLARKE. (18, F.)**

**CRIME: TREASON**

**DIVISION: MEDICAL**

**OTHER INFORMATION: Daughter of 2nd Health Support Company Chief, Abigail Griffin.**

 

Without lifting her head, The Commander looked to the delinquents and searched their faces for the one in the picture.

 

Clarke gulped when her eyes locked with hers, but didn’t dare look away.

 

“Stand.”

 

She stood.

 

The Commander narrowed her jade eyes, assessing the young criminal’s appearance. She wore the same camo-coloured pants, white tank-top and dog-tags that every other cadet did, yet The Commander spotted something unique in her immediately. Not once did she avert her gaze, or appear shy even while being eyeballed by every pair in the room.

 

She wondered horrible things a girl as brave as she had done to wind up here.

 

“Clarke Griffin.” The Commander began, and the Delinquent held her breath. “Medical.”

 

Indra didn’t even bother attempting to calm the commotion that followed, cadets talking to each other, to Clarke, all of them in varying states of confusion, and envy. It was no secret that Medical staff received bonuses almost no other division did; aside from being relatively safe on the back lines during battles, they received higher quality food, more comfortable sleeping quarters, and other seeming useless bonuses that meant everything in times of war.

 

Clarke remained standing, tuned out to the ruckus surrounding her, watching as Indra debated with The Commander, a show not unlike watching a dog bark at a wall. All the while, they never ceased their eye-contact, Commander and Cadet, the lowest and highest ranks seemingly sizing each other up like two animals preparing to fight.

 

The display of her hand silenced both the general and the room after a brief delay, and all eyes were back on Clarke once more. “Griffin will remain a convict, just like all of you. She will sleep in your quarters and eat the same meals as you.”

 

Clarke couldn’t pin down why exactly this didn’t bother her. 

 

“You may sit.”

 

She sat.

 

The Commander, having finally averted her gaze from Clarke, returned the clipboard to Indra.

 

“Monty Green, Combat. Wells Jaha, Communications. Jasper Jordan, Combat. Harper McIntyre…”

 

At some point in the long list of names to follow, none of which had the surprise outcome that hers did, Clarke tuned out again and switched her attentions between The Commander, whom she noticed was also stealing glances at her when appropriate, and her anticipation for the meeting to be over and to be escorted to the on-site hospital where her mother no doubt was.

 

In her two years of confinement, Clarke had only ever seen her mother twice; she was entitled to one annual visit. Citizens of Polis were allowed more frequent drop-ins to the Arkadian Detention Center, up to twelve annually, but Abby was not a citizen of Polis. None of them were. That’s why they were being forced to give their lives to another country’s Army.

 

Technically, Arkadia was considered a legal state of Polis, but that declaration was rejected by Arkadians across all demographics. The larger of the two nations had offered to absorb Arkadia and its people at the first signs of an inter-clan war breaking out, to increase their manpower and land.

 

And Arkadia, being the tiny, defenceless nation that it was, agreed to this in exchange for protection. And while it was true The Army of Polis kept troops on Arkadia’s borders and was willing to march on any nation that threatened her, the treatment of her people within Polis was nothing short of humiliating.

 

“I hope you all remembered your divisions. “ Indra said when she had finished rattling off the names. “At my signal, you will all leave for your posts and await further instructions. Combat Grunts, to the West Quad. Engineering, remain here. Pilots, to the airfield. I will escort you. Medical staff, to the hospital. One of our soldiers will take you there.”

 

Clarke watched Bellamy throw her a wave, volunteering for the task.

 

Indra folded her arms over her chest, scanning the recruits one final time. “Any questions?”

 

Clarke ignored her intimidation tactic and looked to The Commander instead, who was busy sparking up a cigarette which dangled between her lips. 

 

“None? Good. Dismissed!”

 

Before Clarke had even gotten out of her seat, Octavia had dashed in front of her to embrace her brother, who had already begun making his way over to them. Just the sight of their reconciliation made Clarke selfishly anxious to get a move on to the hospital where her only remaining family member was.

 

When they finally pulled away, and Octavia had bid him farewell and filed out with the rest of the Cadets, Bellamy extended his large, calloused hand out in greeting. “Hey. I’m Bellamy.”

 

Clarke accepted his offer, giving his hand a firm shake. “I’m Clarke. But you probably know that.”

 

Bellamy smirked, and Clarke wondered how such a feat was possible for an Arkadian soldier, likely living off the same, sub-standard food rations that prisoners were. “Yes, that was quite a shock. We haven’t had a recruit land in medical off the bat like that in almost a year.”

 

To Clarke’s relief, Bellamy spoke while he turned away and started moving towards the exit. She followed him out into the narrow hallway, cold, metallic, and echoing the noise of every footstep back to them as they walked. “My mom’s a doctor. A pretty high ranking one.”

 

“Abby? Yeah, I know. When she found out you were on the list of the hundred she nagged General Indra so much we all thought she might be executed.”

 

The swell in Clarke’s chest at the knowledge that her mother had risked her life to ensure she was comfortable here was counteracted by the churning of her stomach knowing that Polis, the current greatest global superpower, was still not above executing unruly Arkadians for simply being nuisances.

 

“Don’t worry.” Bellamy assured, one quick glance at a nervous Clarke signalling to him her discomfort. “Just lay low, and try to seem useful. We’re not as indispensable as they want us to think.”

 

Bellamy pushed through one final, heavy door at the end of the hallway and sunlight burst through the entrance, making both recruits squint while their eyes adjusted. They had been in one of the Barracks, relatively void of windows and relying completely on artificial light to illuminate the metal box that was the interior. 

 

Most of the facilities in this particular base were built this way; the bombings were so frequent it was an absolute necessary that the buildings were sturdy enough to withstand firebombs rained from above. 

 

Then again, any plane and pilot brave enough to dare attack Polis’ most impressive Military base was soon to meet a grizzly fate at the explosive discipline of a surface-to-air missile, or in some cases, have the entire plane hijacked by one of the Polis Air Force’s skilled personnel, the original pilot doomed to become a prisoner of war.

 

Bellamy slid into one of the Jeeps that was parked outside the Barracks and guested for Clarke to follow. When they were both secure inside, Bellamy switched the forest-coloured machine into life before beginning the cruise to the Hospital.

 

As they drove, Clarke stared out the window like a naïve child on a road trip through foreign lands, a mere tourist in a coach in the shadow of the impenetrable fortifications of the various buildings surrounding the Barracks. 

 

“Impressive, huh?” Bellamy asked, noticing her wide eyes and dropped jaw.

 

“It’s incredible.”

 

“You should see the rest, but it’d take me and entire day of driving to show you everything. You’ll only really ever need to be at the Hospital or the Barracks anyway.”

 

Clarke turned to her chauffer, analysing his admittedly attractive face and bushy hair. “Where do you operate?”

 

“I’m a deployable, just like virtually every other Arkadian cadet. They toss me into battles, stick me at an outpost I’ve been assigned to protect, its something new every month. Right now, I’m part of the guard in charge of you and the other Delinquents.”

 

Clarke raised a quizzical eyebrow. “So what, you see us up to no good and you shoot us?”

 

“I won’t shoot you. Or any of you. But the rest of the guards will, and I mean it, so be careful. Last week one of them blew an Arkadian soldier’s brains out because he walked into him while they were passing each other in the hallway.”

 

Clarke felt skin on her back crawl with discomfort. Not fear, or anger; she’d outgrown both of those things in her time in Corrections. 

 

“I know the guard who did it. He’s still on duty. In fact, I think he got promoted to Lance Corporal a few days ago.”

 

It was inappropriate, and likely irrelevant, but curiosity got the better of her. “What does the Commander think? Of all the harsh treatment.”

 

Bellamy pursed his lips, and Clarke could almost see the gears working in his head as he racked his brains for an answer. “I want to say she doesn’t care, because for the most part nothing ever changes. But she’s friendly with Kane, and whenever an Arkadian moves up the ranks she’s always the one behind it. Maybe she has a soft spot for us.”

 

Ah yes, Chancellor Kane. Clarke bristled at the mention of the man who’d imprisoned her father and was the indirect reason Clarke was even here in the first place. One upon a time she had marched upon his office with the rest of the Rebellion, demanding independence from Polis, spitting atrocities like ‘Grounder-Lover’ and ‘Traitor.’

 

Grounder was the colloquial term among Arkadians for citizens of Polis, borne out of the fact that Polis had very much a ground-focused Military, specializing in tanks and cannons. It was another reason for the Polis-Arkadia alliance; Arkadia had an exceptional Air Force, one that Polis desperately needed for its Army at the time of the alliance’s declaration.

 

It was where the equivalent term among Grounders for Arkadians, ‘Sky-People’, came from.

 

“This is it.”

 

The Jeep slowed to a halt outside a large, mostly white building with two metal double-doors guarding its entrance. As a safety measure, it had been built on what appeared to be the edge of the base; the leaves of the great, towering trees that belonged to the forest the base was located inside providing decent cover from any airborne threats.

 

Clarke pushed open the passenger door, rushing out a quick ‘Thank you’ before practically dashing towards the double doors, a fist raised to bang them before her eyes fell upon a pin-pad to the left of the doors.

 

The General had not mentioned a code.

 

Cursing in impatience, Clarke pressed a finger to the large, red button at the bottom of the pin-pad, what she assumed to be an audio-transmission button in case this predicament happened.

 

But before she could speak into it, the pin-pad buzzed out a static: “Name.”

 

“Clarke Griffin.”

 

Immediately, the metallic doors parted and Clarke stood back to thank whoever had let her in; only for her eyes to fall upon the equally surprised face of her mother.

 

The two didn’t speak, but instead dashed towards each other to engage in a long overdue hug. Years of suffering in Corrections had prepared Clarke to withstand all kinds of pain; but not this. Not this scene, a mother and her daughter, deprived of contact for years. Finally reunited.

 

She was unable to stop the tears from flowing down her face and dampening her mother’s shoulder, but Abby didn’t care in the slightest. She rubbed a soothing hand up and down her daughters back, fighting back tears of her own, until a sniveling Clarke finally pulled away.

 

“Dry your tears.” Abby said, helping by brushing them away with her thumb. “They’ll see you as weak.”

 

Clarke nodded and pulled her tank-top up wipe her face, using her hands when it got too damp. When she opened her eyes to view Abby again she found her standing much closer to the hospital entrance, beckoning for Clarke to join her.

 

“We can’t be seen slacking. Come on.”

 

The blonde nodded, taking a few tentative steps towards the building she would practically live in for the next few years of her life. If she didn’t die today, that was.


	2. Chapter 2

All it took was once glance around the hospital to understand why the Army valued their brave medical staff so greatly.

Almost every single ‘room’, which was really just a bed slapped between two hospital screens erected for privacy, was occupied by a wounded soldier suffering in varying degrees of severity, measured by the loud groans of various volumes that echoed throughout the warehouse-like hospital.

 

Clarke knew from rumours that the portion of the Military budget that went to medical was laughable, but she hadn’t foreseen the conditions being quite this bad. 

“There’s another hospital near the airbase a few kilometres west, it’s a little nicer.” Abby supplied, noticing her daughters bewildered expression as she stood jaw-dropped at the entrance. “We might be violating health standards but at least our guns are state of the art. Because that’s what matters. Now come here and help me.”

 

Clarke forced her mouth to close, and tried not to ogle at the patients as they lay on paper-thin mattresses on table-top like beds, many of them still wearing their combat uniforms. 

“This was recent.” Clarke stated, in reference to the obvious influx of patients all at once. While Abby changed the bandages on the arm of a Cadet, Clarke worked at the next bed over, removing the curtain that had once separated the stations so they could still talk.

 

“An attack on the troops protecting the Arkadia-Polis border. The rebels pretended to be attempting to cross into Polis but they had bombs strapped to their bodies.”

 

Clarke assessed the damage of a wound on her patient’s shoulder, likely the result of a piece of debris from the explosion. It was only when her face was inches away from the wound that she realised her error. “I should change. Is there a spare medical uniform?”

 

Abby shook her head. “We- they weren’t expecting any new medical staff this week, even though I told them you could serve, so they didn’t order any.”

 

It was lucky the patient didn’t seem to mind; he was fast asleep and oblivious to Clarke’s lack of hygiene. 

 

“For now, just wear a mask and gloves.” Abby offered, nodding to a red box that was stuck to the wall directly above the bed. “We’ll get you a proper uniform soon.”

Clarke nodded and retrieved the items from the kit on the wall, donning them before returning to analyse the wound. She determined from the pungent odour and sickly yellow pus that oozed from the edges of the wound that it had been infected for quite a while now; this man hadn’t been lucky enough to receive treatment from one of the very few staff members the hospital had.

 

“How long have you been short-handed?” Clarke asked as she dampened a cloth under the tap jutting out of the wall next to the cart of poorly organized equipment.

 

“Months. We’re training as many as we can but we’ve had fatal accidents with poorly trained staff, we can’t afford to just stick them in a first-aid program for a week and then expect them to be able to save a life.”

 

Clarke knew this wasn’t always the case; there was once a time when public doctors like Abby were being drafted into the Army to combat low volunteer rates. However, this created a new problem that eventually lead to the draft program being cancelled; lack of civilian doctors. 

 

“That’s probably why they put me here.” said Clarke, pressing the now damp cloth to her patient’s shoulder to clean away the discharge. He stirred at the pressure, but did not wake up.

 

Abby smiled at her daughter, taking in the details of her face she was only now realizing had grown in their years apart. Clarke wore her hair down, as opposed to in a loose ponytail, her preferred style during the prison years, and was crowned by two thin braids that fitted snug around the sides of her head. 

 

She was also a fraction taller, but still quite short. Tiny, but confident. Abby had always admired that in her daughter. “They put you here because I promised them you would be an asset to us. To Medical. Don’t make them think I was wrong.”

 

Clarke noticed out of the corner of her eye another doctor treating a patient a few beds away, watching them cautiously, the tattoos on his face signalling his association to Polis. Although not a necessity, tattoos were to Grounders what brands were to Sky People, what scarification was to Azgeda.

 

Once, Clarke had wanted Arkadia’s emblem permanently burned onto her skin as it was on so many other citizen’s, especially that of the rebels. But the only permanent mark she carried was one she’d received under the duress of the Polis Government. She tilted her forearm to look at it now, barely the size of a bullet, black and bold font: 0319.

 

She vividly remembered the torture that was receiving it, mere hours after they’d finalized her sentence, when she still had enough fight in here to kick and scream as they dragged her away. 

Like all the other captured rebels, they’d pinned her arm down and permanently inscribed the identification number on her inner wrist, directly below her palm. It had only taken a moment, the mark that would forever stain her skin, and right after it was done they’d tossed her into a cell and moved on to the next criminal.

 

Abby noticed Clarke’s solemn gaze as she stared at the mark, as if somehow willing it to magically rise off her skin and float away. “Clarke.” She hissed, titling her head to the doctor, who was watching them even more intently than before.

 

The former rebel buried the feelings back down again, shaking her head as she moved to apply antibiotic cream to her patient’s wound, like it would somehow rid her of her concerns.

***

Night fell, and Clarke was required to return to the recruit barracks instead of the plusher Medical sleeping quarters she would be entitled to if it wasn’t for The Commander’s declaration otherwise. Clarke didn’t feel anger towards her for this however; it was the fair thing to do, it was avoiding the inevitable conflict that would have ensued otherwise.

 

Clarke was a prisoner, just like the rest of the hundred.

 

After completing her shower in less than the allotted time of two-minutes per person, Clarke changed into her nightclothes of grey sweatpants and a t-shirt. When she arrived at the barracks allocated to the female members of the hundred, she discovered a small box full of her belongings had been placed on one of the many single, identical beds, with her identification number written clearly on it.

 

“Home sweet home.” A voice behind Clarke sighed, and the blonde turned to see Octavia sat on her bed, adjacent to Clarke’s. She too had received a box, but had left it unopened and sitting neatly at the foot of the bed.

 

Clarke sat at the edge of her own bed, following the example of most of the other recruits in the room and opening her box. “Aren’t you gonna look at what they gave you?” Clarke asked her neighbour.

 

She snorted. “It’s all false, Griffin. They want us to think we have some power by letting us own a few things. We’re still just their pawns.”

 

Clarke didn’t confirm nor deny this, she was too preoccupied with her new property. Understandably, there were no clothes; not only was it required to wear the correct uniform when in the base, but these were Clarke’s possessions from years ago, taken from here when she was merely sixteen. She knew any clothes they gave her would be either too small or ill-fitting at best.

 

What she did have, however, was a sketchpad full off mindless doodles towards the front; drawings of Wells, her parents, and an amusing number of lions. Clarke’s smile at the memories soon faded as she advanced through the book, her innocent scribblings turning into intricate symbols of the rebellion, art of a raging war in Polis, something she had once longed for.

 

Clarke snapped the book shut and placed it back in the box before her feelings could resurface. But it would prove futile as she discovered another emotional item, which she scooped up as gently as if it were a fragile flower.

 

Jake’s watch. Her last piece of him, given to her shortly before he gave his life suicide bombing an office where officers from Polis were discussing an alliance with the then-Chancellor, Thelonious Jaha.

 

Like the naïve little girl she was at the time, Clarke had followed in her father’s footsteps and committed terrorism of her own, useless crimes that had led to her imprisonment, and now presence in the Military. The blonde knew deep down this wasn’t what he wanted, that he’d told her time and time again not to get involved, but part of her wanted to believe he’d be proud that she’d done it anyway.

 

It certainly made it easier to cope.

“Attention, Ladies!” A voice boomed from the doorway. The cadets looked to reveal Sergeant Gustus, the monitor of their sleeping quarters, with his finger on the light-switch next to the door. “You have ten seconds to get into bed before I turn this light off! Anyone I hear talking or moving after it’s off will be punished!”

 

The Cadets could tell from Gustus’ manly, overgrown beard and bloodshot eyes that he meant business, so they all obeyed and set their boxes aside to scramble into bed. It was only after the light was off that Clarke realized she was still clutching her father’s watch to her chest, underneath the covers.

 

On the floor next to her bed, her box’s lid was still off. She could deposit it there and risk being heard by the Sergeant, or hold onto it and risk breaking it in her sleep. She decided to go with the former, and after a few minutes to allow his guard to slip, she slowly started moving her hand down towards the box.

 

“What are you doing?!” Octavia whispered harshly, and Clarke winced. 

 

“I’m putting something away.”

 

“He’s gonna hear you.”

 

“He will if you keep talking.” Clarke spat, getting annoyed. She couldn’t concentrate on being quiet with Octavia nagging her.

 

“Well hurry up! I’m don’t wanna be cleaning up the bathrooms because of you!”

 

Clarke didn’t respond; she was nearly there. She successfully touched the watch down to the bottom of the box, before slowly withdrawing her hand back up; silently, until it knocked over the box lid that had been resting against the base of the bed.

 

Thump.

 

“Who was that!?” Gustus roared suddenly, stabbing through the silence. He stomped through the room, somehow magically locating the source of the sound, and yanking her up by her shirt to spit in her face. “What are you doing!?”

 

Clarke grimaced as particles of saliva splattered into her face, Gustus’ alcohol-drenched breath offending her nostrils. “I was just-“

 

“Just what, huh?! Plotting to overthrow us?! I know what you did, fucking Rebel!”

 

Ah. Clarke suddenly froze up, her hands shuddering as they clutched at Gustus’ arms. So that’s where all this hostility was from, apart from his obvious intoxication. He knew she was a threat. He wanted to neutralize it.

 

Suddenly, a block of the outside hallway’s artificial light stretched across the floor, stemming from the now open door at the front of the room. “Sergeant Gustus.” A calm voice asserted, and Clarke was dropped back down to her bed immediately.

 

Clarke lay there, shivering, watching in disbelief as The Commander herself strolled into the barracks, each woman she passed shrinking as she walked by. It was only just possible to tell from the outside light that she was still wearing her uniform, holding her hands behind the coat-tails of the pristine black jacket she wore over her necktie. “Stand aside.” she ordered once she’d arrived at Clarke’s bed, and the Sergeant obeyed immediately.

 

To Clarke’s absolute shock, The Commander crouched down to be eye level with her, and for the first time Clarke noticed in detail, her beauty. 

Her eyes were feminine; deep green like the forest outside and conveying next to no emotion. Her cheeks were slightly slanted, adding precision to her already sharp face and impeccable jawline. Between her full lips hung a lit cigarette, which Clarke much preferred the smell of over Gustus’ breath.

 

Lexa pulled the cigarette out of her mouth and blew a cloud of smoke out to her left, to avoid Clarke’s face. “Is there a reason Sergeant Gustus is so upset with you, Clarke?”

 

_She remembered my name._

 

“I was just putting away something.” Clarke explained, trying her best not to stammer as she pointed to her box on the floor. “I forgot I was still holding it when the lights were turned off.”

The Commander nodded, looking not at the box, but at Clarke’s shivering arm, extended in the box’s direction. As if the situation couldn’t get any more astonishing, The Commander reached out to touch the non-cigarette holding hand out to Clarke’s arm, her touch infinitely warmer than her impression would have you believe. 

Clarke would have expected a talon-like feeling, a grip that made you feel like you were someone’s property, but instead her shivers subsided, her breathing evening out.

 

“It’s okay.” The Commander assured, her voice low enough that Clarke was certain only she could hear her. “You’re safe.”

 

The blonde gave a shaky nod. Satisfied, The Commander rose back up to her full, towering height, inhaling a puff of her smoke. “Tomorrow night you are indefinitely relieved of your monitoring duty, Gustus.” she announced, turning to the Sergeant.

 

Clarke watched him grit his teeth, his fists clenched at his sides. “But Commander-“

 

A raised hand. Immediate silence. Clarke noted how like General Indra, Gustus did not address The Commander by her name, despite his relatively high status. Perhaps he, just like Clarke and the rest of the Cadets, did not actually know her name.

 

The Commander turned to look at Clarke again, running her eyes over her body for a moment, as if assessing her trauma. She nodded, and turned to make an exit, leaving an entire room of stunned Cadets in her wake.


	3. Chapter 3

Clarke awoke the next morning groggy from a restless night, kept up by thoughts of lasy night’s surprise visitor. Her long face, her hand on her arm, her firm but gentle voice.

 

Why did she come? Why did she relieve her Sergeant of his duty so hastily? Why had she remembered Clarke’s name? 

 

Why, why, why?

 

“Is something wrong, Clarke?” A familiar voice asked, snapping the blonde out of her groggy haze.

 

Clarke turned to the one responsible, debating whether it was wise to tell him. There was chance he wouldn’t believe her, or if he did, there was of course the risk of rumours spreading, which could prove fatal when they inevitably reached the ears of The Commander.

 

Not that she thought Wells would ever do such a thing.

 

It was her first time seeing him since the recruits had dissipated after the initiation meeting, all of the hundred were gathered in the food hall to scoff down their morning rations before they were required at their respective posts.

 

Clarke’s breakfast consisted of similar slop that it had in Corrections. Fortunately, she hadn’t an appetite and Finn, who sat to the left of her, was more than happy to eat it on her behalf.

 

“I’m fine.” Clarke concluded after tossing the statement back and forth in her head. She knew it would probably get out eventually, all the female recruits had seen it after all, but there were certain parts she could keep to herself.

 

Wells raised an eyebrow and nodded, unconvinced. “Okay, fine. How’s medical?”

 

“Terrible. How’s communications?”

 

“Not much better. One of the seniors spat in my face because I accidentally knocked over his coffee.”

 

Clarke shrugged. “At least he didn’t kill you. They can get away with that.”

 

“So I’ve heard.” Wells answered quietly just as an officer walked past their table, eyeing them suspiciously. 

 

The officers, among them Bellamy; who was paying particularly close attention to Octavia’s table, were guarding the exits as well as pacing around the room surveying the activity, boasting machine guns and batons.

 

“We’re nothing but animals in a pen to them.” Finn said through a mouthful of food. 

 

On the other side of the table, Jasper was picking at his own, neither present or absent. “Not for long.” he piped up suddenly, drawing everyone’s attention. “Pike’s gonna fix everything.”

 

At the mention of the Rebellion Leader’s name, Clarke flinched, and Wells’ hand was on her shoulder immediately. “Shut up Jasper.” he growled in warning.

 

But the lanky man just laughed. “It’s true. He’s gonna make it all better.”

 

Unsurprisingly, Jasper was as high as a kite. No matter where he was, prison, the barracks, he somehow always managed to find pot, or some other hallucinative somewhere. It was precisely why him and his partner Monty were here; eventually, their business of trees had attracted attention from the wrong people.

 

But in addition to the hazy effect Clarke knew all too well pot would leave on you, Jasper was devastatingly depressed. After his prison girlfriend Maya was killed at the hands of a grounder guard, Jasper had fallen not only into this terrible mental state, but also pledged himself to Pike and his movement in the hopes of avenging her.

 

It was an origin story not unlike Clarke’s, but the difference was that Clarke had grown out of it. When Pike took over as the Rebellion’s Leader the blonde had tried to distance herself from it; the excessively violent techniques he favoured had gone against her and her father’s beliefs.

 

“Pike isn’t going to fix anything.” she stated flatly. “If anything, he’d going to get us all killed.”

To Clarke’s relief, the buzzer for release had finally sounded, and she could be rid of Jasper’s blind hope for a while. Over the next week, Clarke found her mind occupied during work on more than a few occasions; still attempting to somehow debunk that fateful night in the Barracks.

Since that night, Clarke had only seen The Commander a grand total of three times. Twice when passing her in a hallway somewhere; only catching a mere glimpse of her stoic form out of the corner of her eye, bowing her head as she passed in respect. 

The other time was the most memorable of the three. The Commander herself has come to the Hospital to observe the mending of her Army. While they did not speak, Clarke knew The Commander had been watching her.

Whether she was monitoring the behaviour of one of the more dangerous cadets, or whether she was simply curious, Clarke hadn’t a clue.

What she did know, was that the daily thoughts of her were evolving into a more serious problem as the day of the mission to recapture Tondc from the Ice Nation drew ever closer.

It was a Garrison city, a priority for The Commander, who had been making plans to drive out the occupying army for weeks alongside Lieutenant Commander Titus. While it was important to recapture it before the Ice Nation utilized its impressive arsenal and attacked from within Polis’ borders, it was also vital the recruits were fully trained and ready to give their lives in battle.

 

Octavia and the rest of the grunts spent their days at shooting galleries, navigating mazes and mastering the art of marksmanship. Clarke, on the other hand, received expert training from both her mother and other senior medical staff, finally receiving her uniform the day before the mission was due to take place.

 

It consisted of papery blue pants and matching shirt, complete with a white lab-coat similar to what one might see a chemist wear. After she’d changed into it in the bathroom, she emerged into the main area only to discover most of the medical staff departing the room, only a few staying behind to mind the wounded.

 

“What’s going on?” Clarke asked one the more favourable senior staff, Jackson.

 

“We’re heading to the meeting centre to receive instructions about tomorrow.” He answered. “Your mother will tell us who’s going, and if you are, where you need to be.”

 

Clarke nodded. As a low-ranking doctor, and considering medical’s desperate staff count, it was almost guaranteed she would be hurled into action tomorrow. She wasn’t afraid, very rarely did Polis’ Support Squads suffer great casualties. Besides, she was confident in her combat abilities, honed by the regular brawls and skirmishes that took place within the Arkadia Correctional Facility walls. 

 

Additionally, six-months prior to being drafted, Clarke and the hundred had been forced to take part in a basic training course to prepare for the Army. While much of it had been forgotten shortly after being learnt, Clarke had retained her basic understanding of Morse Code, how to drive, and operate a firearm along with some other basic weapons.

 

The staff moved to the Jeeps parked outside, and Clarke swung open a rear door, freezing at the unmistakable symbol of the Arkadian Rebellion printed proudly on a sheet of paper resting slightly crumpled on the seat. Clarke didn’t need to look to know what words were written underneath it: ‘JOIN THE FIGHT’, ‘WE ARE ONE ARKADIA’, ‘WE NEED YOU’ or some other vomit-inducing nonsense Clarke had grown tired of.

 

Before the passenger on the other side of the vehicle could enter, she seized the offending article of propaganda and dug it into her lab-coat pocket, inconspicuously clawing it to pieces throughout the ride.

 

She didn’t have the time to ponder on how it had arrived in one of the Hospital Jeeps, much less who had left it there, as before long they had arrived outside the Command Base, a block of a building where, Clarke gulped as she realized, The Commander spent most of her time.

 

Once the metal double doors protecting the entrance had parted, a long hallway was revealed, doors on both sides leading into the respective division’s meeting rooms. Clarke observed the symbol painted onto each door and noted the service; An anchor: The Navy. A satellite: Communications. A soaring bird: The Air Force. And so forth.

 

One particular door was slightly taller than the others, framed with red paint. When Clarke spied the symbol on its front her first thought was Engineering; at first glance it looked like a gear, but the design within the outer circle was far too complex. No, this was the symbol stitched onto the sleeve of The Commander’s and her Lieutenant’s jackets: the mark of the highest rank in all the Military.

 

Clarke could have almost forgot the door wasn’t the reason why she was here, if it wasn’t for the medical officer behind her nudging her onwards through the hallway. The door she was destined for also bore a circle, but with a cross at its centre as opposed to another circle and intermediate lines.

 

Upon entry, Clarke noticed her mother hunched over a large, rectangular table with several maps laid out across it. She gestured for Clarke to stand next to her, ensuring everyone gathered around could clearly see the map on the table before beginning.

 

The order of operations in the Army of Polis prior to a mission was known to be extremely successful due to The Commander’s efficiency. She and the leaders of the different factions would meet to develop and in-depth plan, which each individual leader would then relay back to their respective division, just as Abby was doing.

 

“First of all.” Abby began. “Does everyone know what Company they’ve been assigned?”

 

A collective nod followed. Clarke revised the title in her head, which she’d received yesterday. 2nd Health Service Battalion: 1st Health Support Company.

 

“Let’s begin then.” Abby began jabbing fingers at marked locations on the map, rattling off the order of movements, instructions, and potential difficulties. While Clarke admired her mother’s leadership skills, they were indeed something she strived to gain herself, it was all rather boring.

 

At least it was, until her assignment was finally revealed. 

 

“1st Health Support Company, you’re small. You will have two vans, two of you in each. You will be with the Alpha Squad of the 1st Brigade, the elites.”

 

Clarke's gaze followed her mother’s finger to a point on the map, marked boldly by that declaration of a symbol that made her heart drop into her stomach. 

 

“This is The Commander’s squad.” Abby explained. “It’s unlikely she and the rest of the elites will need our protection, which is why we’re sending only two vans. Now, 3rd Health Support Company, with the Delta Squad…”

 

But by now, Clarke was completely oblivious to any further instructions. She had all the information she needed. Her assignment: Alpha Squad. The Commander’s Squad of specialized elites, each one of them deadlier than an entire battalion of grunts. They couldn’t afford to lose even a single one of them under their protection.

 

Eighteen hours until deployment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your sweet comments and kudos, big love to all of you <3


	4. Chapter 4

If asked what she’d expected to feel on the battlefield, Clarke could have provided a whole smorgasbord of emotions and states of mind. 

 

What she wouldn’t have suggested, and what she felt now, was mind-numbingly bored.

 

The Alpha Squad had been delivered via chopper to her current location, outside what Clarke assumed was once a mall, now swarming with Ice Nation grunts and overrun with plants bursting from every crevice, the result of months of neglect.

 

The war was young, only just approaching its first birthday, but it had spiraled out of control so fast that most civilians didn’t dare leave their troop-protected villages unless absolutely necessary. Places like malls were quickly going extinct.

 

The scene looked rather like something out of a zombie apocalypse movie, Clarke noted to herself as she stared out of the window of the van from the passenger seat. The vehicle she and Juel had been assigned was, like most Medical vehicles, a weaponized ambulance; complete with bulletproof glass, emergency weapons, and a hard shell of ultra-strength steel around the exterior.

 

For all its coating, however, the van couldn’t block out booms of distant bombs exploding, accompanied by the rapid-fire of machine guns. Inside the mall, the Alpha Squad were wiping out the foreign occupants, but judging by the amount of time Clarke and Juel had been waiting, almost two hours, they were having trouble.

 

They had been instructed to wait until the objective was secured, before advancing with them to the next location. They’d all left at 0700 hours, taking their morning rations to go, and had been away from the base for roughly four hours.

 

Four hours that had seemingly stretched to forty.

 

“I wish someone had told me how boring this would be.” Clarke sighed, breaking the long silence between her and the van’s driver.

 

Juel offered a grunt in response, not looking away from the mall which she’d been watching intently from the driver’s side window for the past thirty minutes.

 

Clarke gritted her teeth at the pathetic response. “Look.” she began a little forcefully, and Juel turned her head ever so slightly in her direction. “We’ve been stuck here for ages, and we’re probably gonna be stuck here for another long while, so you might as well talk to me.”

 

“I don’t associate with traitors like you.” Juel answered flatly.

 

“Well if one of our Squad gets injured and we have to work together to save them, you’re gonna have to.”

 

It was then that Juel finally turned to Clarke, the jagged tattoo curling around her eye contorting as she scowled. “The Commander is strong. It is likely that none of her squad will need saving.”

 

In an effort to keep the conversation going for the sake of her sanity, Clarke questioned this. “She’s so young, how strong could she be?”

 

“Of course, the Sky Person doubts her strength. Have you no respect?” Juel spat. But she continued anyway, refusing to meet Clarke’s gaze. “She joined the military at sixteen. Made it to Captain by eighteen. Colonel by nineteen. Now at twenty-one, and she’s the highest rank achievable.”

 

Clarke pretended not to know all of this, raising her eyebrows in feigned shock. “That’s incredible.”

 

“She’s incredible.”

 

“Well, what did she do to get there so fast?”

 

Juel smiled a twisted kind of smile that made the hairs on the back of Clarke’s neck shoot up. “There’s only rumors, but I heard she alone slaughtered an entire battalion with nothing but two Uzis and a shitton of ammo. She snuck into their tents while they slept and left a mountain of corpses when she left.”

 

Now there was something new. Clarke’s eye widened in genuine surprise, smirking at the thought of the mighty Commander soaked in blood, dual-wielding submachine guns, cigarette burning away between her lips.

 

Juel noticed the smile and was apparently getting excited talking about her too, she turned to face Clarke fully at last. “Some people say she’s got a kill count even higher than Sergeant Gustus, and he has an entire wall made of fallen soldier’s dog tags in his office.”

 

Clarke wasn’t sure whether to burst out in laughter at the obvious lie, or nod and play along like an ambitious grunt. In the end, she could only giggle and shake her head, much to Juel’s disgust.

 

“It’s true, don’t you know about-“

 

But she was cut off by a deafening explosion from inside the mall, lighting up the ground floor and shooting two soldiers out of the main entrance from the sheer force of the detonation.

 

Clarke winced and rubbed at her ear to tame the loud ringing, just barely making out the forms of the two soldiers, one lying lifeless a few meters from the mall entrance, the other struggling to their feet.

 

 _Her_ feet.

 

“The Commander!” Juel yelled, and before Clarke could stop her she leaped out of the van, managing to sprint barely halfway to her target before a single bullet from an elevated sniper shot her dead.

 

Clarke didn’t have time to dwell on her grizzly demise, her attention was rapidly flickering from The Commander, bleeding out on the ground but managing to aim and fire her weapon at the roof, where the other concern, the sniper, was patiently waiting for her to run out of ammo and make his move.

 

Praying to an entity she didn’t believe in that there were no other threats, Clarke snatched a grenade out of the emergency weapons compartment below the glove-box, dashing through the still open driver’s side door and into the fray.

 

The Commander was firing in short bursts to preserve ammo, shooting at the target whenever he aimed his gun over the protective railing bordering the rooftop to prevent falling accidents. Running towards her and leaping over Juel’s corpse, Clarke ripped the safety clip off the bomb, waited until The Commander was out of bullets and the sniper had taken aim, before hurling the device directly onto the roof.

 

A second ear-splitting blast shook the area, briefly immobilizing Clarke as she clutched her head to keep from completely blanking out. When she opened her eyes, two foggy Commanders slowly merged into one, her position constantly shifting with the flickering of her sight.

 

There was no time to wait for precise vision; another gunner could pop out of nowhere at any moment. Clarke raced over to her, hoisting her up with a grunt of effort, one of her arms slung over her shoulders.

 

“Can you walk?” Clarke practically yelled; she knew The Commander’s hearing would be damaged from the blast. She nodded, leaning onto Clarke as together they stumbled over to the van, abandoning the second body that had been blown through the doors during the first explosion.

 

When Clarke had swung open the rear doors to the van and settled The Commander one of the two stretchers inside, she yanked the barriers shut again and promptly moved to the driver’s seat, closing the door and revving the machine into action.

 

“Should we go back for the other one?” Clarke asked, her foot twitching on the gas pedal.

 

“No, she’s dead. Just drive. There’s an underground parking lot somewhere arou-“ she was cut off by a wince of pain as the van started moving, jostling slightly on the uneven road. Clarke could only hope any other wounded soldiers would be picked up by another Company as she sped away from the combat zone.

 

After a few minutes of frantic driving, Clarke secluded the black support vehicle in what appeared to be the outback parking area behind some small business Clarke didn’t care enough about to note the name of.

 

She parked and returned to the back the van where The Commander had already removed her apparently faulty bullet-proof vest, and was holding a bloodied, shaking hand over a gaping wound on the left of her abdomen. “Fuck.” Clarke cursed, frantically searching the side-tables of the van until she found the trauma shears.

 

Clarke returned to The Commander’s side, snipping away a section of the camouflage fabric of her jumpsuit to reveal a 9mm, embedded in flesh and oozing dark, jet-black blood.

 

“Your blood…” Clarke breathed, her brows furrowing as she assessed the damage. “It’s... black?”

 

In all her medical training she’d never encountered anything like it. “It’s a mutation…” The Commander struggled, her forehead creased in agitation. “Ignore it, it’s just like regular blood.”

 

Clarke nodded and slipped gloves on over her already bloodied hands, pulling a medical mask over her mouth. The van lacked the proper equipment to conduct a full surgery to remove the bullet and its shards, so the next best thing was to clot the wound until The Commander could be delivered to the Hospital back at the base.

 

“Hold still.” she asserted, pressing the tip of the on-hand Celox Applicator into the bullet hole. The Commander groaned and squeezed her eyes shut as Clarke injected the clotting-acceleration medication deep into the wound, before withdrawing the applicator and pressing a clean cloth on the surface of the wound.

 

“We’ve gotta get you back to the base, but I can’t drive and treat you at the same time.” Clarke’s mask-muffled voice stated, pretending not to notice The Commander admiring her cleavage as she hunched over to press the wound. She couldn’t exactly blame her; it was rather prominent, and she was likely looking for a distraction from the chunk of metal buried in her innards. 

 

The Commander nodded in agreement, reaching with a huff of effort for the radio strapped to a harness on her chest. “Commander to Alpha, does anyone copy?” she wheezed into the device.

 

She was answered by a static voice, seemingly yelling over the sound of bullets whizzing nearby. “Commander! We’ve secured most of the area! They are on the retreat!”

 

“Continue without me, I give leadership to Sergeant Gustus. I’ve been hit, I need someone to radio for additional medical support.”

 

“Roger that!”

 

Clarke took the opportunity during their brief, radio-transmitted discussion to evaluate the ludicrousness of the situation. The Commander was in her van. She was treating her. She was also dying in front of her.

 

“Were you hit anywhere else, Commander?” she blurted out suddenly, trying to look anywhere else but at The Commander’s long, injured form.

 

“When the blast knocked us back, I landed badly on my leg…” she said with a wince, struggling to turn the one in question so Clarke could see.

 

One hand still pressing the cloth to the bullet wound, Clarke reached for one of the spare pillows underneath the stretcher and stuffed it underneath The Commander’s injured leg. It would have to do for now.

 

Noticing black beginning to seep into the cloth and spread like an oil spill, Clarke yanked a second cloth from the bench behind her and pressed it over the top of the first one. “Permission to speak freely, Commander?” she asked awkwardly as if she hadn’t already been doing so.

 

The Commander dipped her head in consent.

 

“Who was that soldier we left behind?”

 

A shift in her jaw. The twitch of an eyebrow. Too forward.

 

“Her name was Anya.” The Commander stated. “She was… a friend.”

 

The thought of the stoic Commander keeping friends made Clarke uncomfortable for reasons she couldn’t explain. She’d only ever seen the woman as an untouchable god of sorts, the leader of the hierarchy, on a separate tier to everyone else.

 

But clearly, even gods could bleed. Then again, pitch-black blood. Black!

 

“My Squad will retrieve her body.” The Commander sighed, reaching into her chest pocket and producing a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. She flicked off the cap and used her mouth to pull one out, holding it between her teeth while she lit it. “Want one?” 

 

Clarke wondered for a moment if this was a test. To take it, and confirm that she was a rebellious brute, smoking even in a medical van, or refuse it, an offer straight from The Commander herself.

 

In the end, she chose the latter. “No thank you, Commander.” she said, briefly checking the status of the wound by lifting the cloth ever so slightly. The bleeding had stopped, but it was still swollen and in desperate need of proper attention. The extra support vehicles hopefully wouldn’t take as long returning to the base as they did arriving here.

 

“Ugh, enough of this Commander business. You’re saving my life, not taking orders.” The Commander grunted, exhaling a heavy white breath above her.

 

Clarke hoped she couldn’t hear the thunderous pounding in her chest at the statement. “How should I address you, then?”

 

The Commander’s cigarette shifted with her jaw as she thought about the question. She turned to look up at Clarke, the emotionless forest in her eyes brightening to an almost welcoming green orchard, one that Clarke stared into with equal intensity.

 

“You may use my name. It’s Lexa. Just Lexa.”

 

“Okay, Command- Lexa.”

 

The name rolled off her tongue like she’d known it all her life.

 

_Lexa._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, some interaction! I know this chapter was a bit hard to follow but the war isn't all that important here, we're here for The Commander and The Rebel finally getting some time together!
> 
> As always, thank you for your comments and kudos! <3


	5. Chapter 5

By the time the extra support vehicle had arrived, Clarke had managed to perform a very rough analysis of all The Commander’s injuries.

 

Lexa’s injuries.

 

Her leg was well and truly broken, and there were various pieces of shrapnel from the explosion stuck into her body. Clarke did her best to remove some of the larger ones, but she’d only managed to remove three when the _skrt_ of a second van skidding onto the gravel parking lot could be heard outside.

 

Clarke stood aside to let the senior medical officers into the room, carrying with them a second wounded soldier that they must have picked up on the way here. They laid this new occupant down on the other stretcher, around three people crowding around them to offer immediate care, while two other officers moved forward to check The Commander.

 

The larger of the two officers, a hefty man with a beard similar to Sergeant Gustus’ and beautifully detailed facial tattoos, threw Clarke a skeptical look as she backed away between the two seats at the front of the van. “You’re a doctor too, you can come help” he assured, much to his partner’s confusion.

 

“Nyko, she’s only a-“

 

Nyko silenced his fellow officer with a glare. He turned to Lexa, observing Clarke’s handiwork on her abdomen. “She’s done a fine job here,” he stated, and Lexa nodded.

 

To Clarke’s utter bewilderment, the burly man stepped towards her and extended a huge, meaty hand. “I’m Nyko. Thank you for saving our Commander.”

 

Clarke took his hand in her own slowly, her neck craning as she looked upwards to meet his gaze. “I’m Clarke, nice to meet you. I should go, uh, drive the van back to base.”

“No.” Lexa coughed, and every officer’s head in the van turned to her. “You stay. Someone else drive the van.”

Nyko looked expectantly at his partner, and he scowled at both him and Clarke before storming to the driver’s seat.

 

While they drove, Nyko left Clarke alone to nurse Lexa, tending with the other medical staff to the other wounded soldier, who was in a far more severe state than The Commander. Clarke stood at Lexa’s side, a million and one thoughts whizzing around her dizzy head but staring blankly at the van’s floor.

 

Yet again, her hands were stained both literally and figuratively, with blood. She’d watched her comrade dash mindlessly into the battlefield and had done nothing when her lifeless body slumped to the ground. Despite her sins, both recent and aged, she’d saved the Commander’s life. She was a criminal, a terrorist, a doctor, and now a hero.

 

Clarke gagged, feeling bile creeping into her throat. She felt Lexa tugging at her lab-coat, and looked down to watch her hold her palm flat and tap it, an eyebrow raised in question.

 

The blonde understood, and held her own palm out in front of Lexa, both feeling and watching diligently as The Commander prodded and dragged a message in Morse into Clarke’s palm. This was both a test of her abilities and a way to avoid attention, Clarke justified in her head, her gaze flicking over to the medical party surrounding the other soldier, well aware of how strange a non-medical related conversation between Grunt and Commander would seem.

 

_U-O-K-?_

 

She tapped quickly, with minuscule intervals between each letter, but Clarke had excelled in this method of communication alongside Octavia during their pre-military prep months. When Lexa was done Clarke signaled for her to open her own palm, and she obeyed, watching with focused jade orbs as Clarke replied to the question in taps and drags of her own.

 

_S-T-R-E-S-S-E-D._

 

Lexa frowned, checking to ensure no one was watching them before giving Clarke’s hand a reassuring squeeze, an action that made the blonde’s heart swell and her face flush. As if a Grounder stranger showing her civilities wasn’t outrageous enough, now the Commander was showing concern for her well-being.

 

The next hour or so of the journey passed in silence, Clarke taking breaks to examine the bullet wound, administer painkillers and antibiotics, and mindlessly tidy up the mess she’d made in her haste to treat the trauma. She occupied herself not only to avoid seeming useless to the other officers but to distract her from looking back at Lexa, whom she knew had been stealing glances up at her the entire time.

 

***

 

When they finally arrived back at the base, Clarke noticed they’d been taken to the West Hospital, which as Abby had pointed out, was much grander than the one she worked at. Clarke was instructed to wait around the wards for further instructions, Lexa was ushered off to surgery, and the young doctor granted herself an exploration of the facility.

 

It appeared to be a hospital only for the higher-ups and the critically wounded; there were sealed off rooms and more experienced staff on hand, scurrying about the hallways clutching paperwork and medical supplies. Clarke offered to help a particularly anxious looking woman as she flipped through a notebook, but after a quick glance at the non-Grounder, the woman smiled a big, toothy smile and muttered a ‘no thank you’ through it before walking away, cursing as she did so.

 

Clarke decided she much preferred the awkwardness of being treated with respect by Nyko and Lexa than she did to this.

 

Thankfully, the surgery was brief as far as operations go, and Clarke was summoned via loudspeaker to ‘Room 17, Ward 3’, which she located and entered after a few minutes of struggling to find it.

 

Upon entry, Clarke discovered a small, gleamingly white room with a sink, mirror, and bed, flanked by two chairs for visitors. Tucked inside the bed and cloaked in a thin blue Hospital gown was the exhausted Commander, hooked up to an IV and morphine drip with her broken leg in an elevated black cast.

 

At her side was a bald, middle-aged man, who scowled at Clarke the very moment she opened the door. She spied the Commander’s emblem on the upper sleeve of his green jacket, and promptly lowered her head as she closed the door behind her. “Lieutenant Commander.” she greeted, receiving a half-hearted ‘hm’ in an answer.

 

Lieutenant Titus turned to Lexa again, forehead creased as he hunched over her like a concerned parent. “I will ensure the remainder of the mission continues smoothly while you recover, Commander.”

Clarke quietly padded over to the other side of Lexa’s bed, suddenly taking great interest in one of the monitors next to her. She waited, out of place like she had been all day, while the other room’s occupants discussed the healing process, upcoming mission postponement, and other important obligations.

 

When they had seemingly finished talking, and Titus had turned to leave, Lexa called out to him; “Wait.”

 

Titus turned.

 

“Inform Chief Abigail Griffin that Clarke has been transferred to the Western Hospital until I have been discharged. She will monitor my recovery process and if all goes well, she will be promoted from recruit to officer.”

 

Clarke’s jaw dropped, but before she could respond, in gratitude, in refusal, in absolute shock, Titus’ face scrunched up and his fists clenched at his sides, immediately Clarke decided against voicing her opinion.

 

“She had been here less than a month, Commander!” he bellowed, marching towards Clarke and snatching up her arm, pointing an accusing finger at the four-digit identification code on her wrist. “She is a rebel! She doesn’t even deserve to be here, let alone be a medical officer!”

 

Despite all her instincts, Clarke didn’t try to withdraw her hand. Something told her this kind of argument was frequent. She couldn’t be disobedient now and prove Titus right.

 

“Release her at once!” Lexa barked, and Clarke’s wrist was forcefully returned to her in a shove that made her stumble back. “Leave us, heed my instructions.”

 

Titus remained where he was, glaring at Clarke like she’d be better off as a corpse.

 

“Now.” Lexa asserted, lowering her volume but speaking with the same intensity she had that night in the barracks. It dawned on Clarke that this whole time, Lexa had been speaking as though she were merely a soldier and not the Commander. It both warmed and chilled her to know that she’d witnessed this side of the woman.

 

With a huff, Titus murmured a “Yes, Commander.’ before taking his leave, leaving the two alone in the room. Immediately after he left, Lexa sighed and squeezed the bridge of her nose, suddenly seeming much older in her fatigue. Despite her pitiful clothing, Clarke couldn’t deny that she still managed to look powerful, even in this state. She half expected her to get up and return to her daily duties any minute as if she hadn’t just had a bullet removed from her flesh mere minutes ago.

 

Instead, she held a hand out to the doctor at her side. “I’m sorry about him. He was one of the oppositionists to the Polis-Arkadia alliance. Show me your wrist.”

 

Clarke held her wrist out to the Commander, shuddering when she reached out to grip it, the feeling of that first touch all those nights ago heating up her entire body. When she wasn’t bleeding out or communicating with her fingers to be subtle, Lexa had quite the soft touch.

 

“I think it’s disgusting, what they do to you.” she muttered, ghosting a finger over the tattoo so gently Clarke wondered how those same fingers could have ever taken even a single life, never mind those of entire battalions. 

“In Polis, tattoos are significant, they forever mark your accomplishments, your loved ones, and your life’s story in your skin. They are part of you. They aren’t some identification to be etched into a prisoner like a farmer marks his livestock.”

 

Clarke shrugged. “I used to try to cover it up, but now it’s just there. I don’t notice it anymore.” she lied.

 

Lexa shook her head and frowned, and Clarke could almost make out pain on her face. For such a supposedly cold-blooded woman, which Clarke has already discovered to be false, Lexa was indeed capable of empathy. “If you can’t wear it with pride, you shouldn’t have one. I have appealed to the Chancellor of Polis numerous times to change how they identify you but he won’t listen.”

 

Growing anxious at the mention of one of the most hated political figures in all of Arkadia, Clarke pulled her hand back and diverted the subject. “Do you have any?”

 

_Stupid question. Of course she does. What’s wrong with you?_

 

“I do,” Lexa confirmed, pulling up the elbow-length sleeve of her hospital gown to reveal a gorgeous, three-banded upper arm sleeve; a tribal style maze of lines and curls, two symmetrical, the bottom one pointing with its hook-like tips the same way as the top. “Three bands. For the three ranks I jumped to in three years. Captain, Colonel, Commander.”

 

“It’s beautiful.” Clarke breathed, her fingers itching at her sides to trace the intricate lines of it over her bicep. “Is it your only one?”

 

“There’s one on my back.” 

 

Clarke nodded, understanding that not much else needed to be said beyond that. But regardless, Clarke longed to see it. She longed to see so much more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure whether I wanna write some chapters following Lexa's pov instead of Clarke's all the time, because while I could write some nice stuff about what she's thinking I like the consistency of the Clarke POV. Who knows.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Drop me a kudo or comment if you enjoyed it <3


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this one's a little long but trust me you're gonna like it ;)

After numerous attempts, Clarke did end up convincing a few of the ward staff to let her assist them, which she did while Lexa rested. The task of nursing the Commander back to full health would no doubt be challenging but it didn’t require her attention at all times, so like the busy-body she was, she kept her mind engaged with work.

 

She delivered a tray of food to a soldier in the room a few doors over from Lexa’s and took the opportunity of her proximity to check up on her. Unsurprisingly, she was awake; her sleep over the past few hours had been fitful and was fiddling with a pocket knife she’d apparently found.

 

“What the hell? Where did you get that?” Clarke demanded as she hurried into the room.

 

“A doctor left it in here, presumably so I can defend myself in case you try to inject air into one of my veins,” Lexa answered, not looking away from the blade in her hands.

 

Clarke rolled her eyes, lacking the energy to question whether Lexa considered that a possibility. “Please. My days of targeting political figures are over.”

 

“Is that what you did? That was what got you caught?”

 

Lexa was looking at Clarke now, the blade frozen between her fingers, fidgeting paused. She somehow appeared younger, eyes bright with curiosity, head tilted slightly to one side like a puzzled canine.

 

“No. Well, not exactly. It’s complicated.”

 

To her relief, Lexa didn’t press further. She continued playing with the knife for a few moments until she groaned and dropped the thing on the table beside her bed, hands flying to rub at her temples. “I need a cigarette.”

 

Clarke couldn’t help but laugh. “Do you have any idea where you are?”

 

“I don’t care. Just go get me some. And a lighter. Please.”

 

Both out of submission and the knowledge that Lexa wouldn’t give up, Clarke sighed and nodded, turning to leave. 

 

“Oh, and could you run me a bath too. Please.”

 

“You shouldn’t submerge the wound in water. It could reopen.”

 

Clarke heard Lexa let out a huff of amusement behind her. “It wouldn’t be the first bloodbath I’ve soaked in.”

***

Returning to the ward, cigarettes, lighter, and ashtray tucked into her inner lab-coat pocket, Clarke helped Lexa to her feet and practically dragged her down the hallway, trudging hunched over as Lexa limped next to her. “This would have been easier if you’d used a wheelchair.” Clarke murmured, and Lexa made a ‘tch’ sound with her mouth.

 

The bathrooms functioned like those of an airport lounge; they were small, and you were given a limited amount of time to use them. But of course, after Clarke had explained who it was for, they’d prepared a safe warm bath and allotted them as ‘much time as you need.’

 

“I’ll be out here if you need anything,” said Clarke after delivering Lexa to the room, receiving a nod in response before the barrier closed in her face. She turned away from the door, appreciating the solitude of the bathroom block for a moment until she heard a shriek and a thud from the room behind her.

 

An inexplicable protective instinct kicking in, Clarke shoved the door open but immediately flushed hotter than lava. “Lexa! Are you- Ah!”

 

Clarke slapped a hand over her face to cover her view of The Commander’s naked form, struggling to get up from the ground she’d tumbled to while removing her gown. “Ugh, you’re here now, you might as well look.”

 

Now, this she was positive was a test. Clarke shook her head, her hand remaining over her eyes.

 

“I’m serious.”

 

Perhaps it was still a test, perhaps this would change the way Lexa felt about her forever, but curiosity won the battle with logic and Clarke slowly pulled her hand away from her face, eyes widening at the sight before her.

 

Clarke couldn’t keep her eyes still, they flickered from the long, chiselled legs folded beneath her extending up to strong thighs, the dreamy expanse of her belly slightly corrupted by the thick, waterproof bandaging over the bullet-hole, perky breasts peaked with toffee coloured buds, and perhaps most incredibly; a pink blush dusting her cheeks.

 

The mighty Commander, naked in a heap on the floor, and blushing like a schoolgirl.

 

“Um, let me help you up.” Clarke stammered, closing the bathroom door and extending a hand out towards Lexa.

 

The soldier huffed and swatted it away as if it were a fly. “I’m fine,” she said matter-of-factly, and Clarke could only watch with a sad smile as The Commander extended her arms beneath her, pressed herself up, only for over-exertion to win over and for her upper body to collapse again.

 

How long had it been since she’d required assistance like this? No wonder she’d been so hostile to Titus; she was independent, reliant upon no one. Others relied on her.

 

“Lexa,” Clarke said, and the addicting rush of adrenaline at speaking it swarmed her body. “Let me help you.”

 

The Commander looked up at Clarke with damp, glistening eyes that made the blonde’s heart ache like it had been punched. “How am I supposed to lead if I can’t even stand up?”

 

It was then that Clarke crouched down, mimicking Lexa’s posture from that night. Despite the toned body fully exposed for her to admire, her gaze held Lexa’s, the sky meeting the forest, surrounded by the snowy white of the room. “You’ve been shot. Your leg is broken. You lead a Squad into war today.”

 

Lexa narrowed her eyes, her jaw moving from side to side as she debated her options. Figuring the situation couldn’t possibly get any more ridiculous, Clarke reached out and clutched Lexa’s wrist in an incredible display of courage, pulling it upwards and slightly towards her in a way she knew would hurt just enough for her to be taken seriously. 

 

“You’re being too stubborn.”

 

Lexa scowled, but she made no attempt to reclaim her wrist. In fact, she even reached her other hand out to Clarke, not giving her the satisfaction of eye contact as she gave in. Clarke accepted the outstretched limb, gripping Lexa’s forearm as she rose to her full height, allowing the taller woman to use her body to pull herself up.

 

When she was standing once again, weight resting on one foot only, she didn’t say anything but didn’t release Clarke’s grip either. 

 

“You can’t walk, can you...” Clarke sighed. Lexa nodded quietly.

 

The doctor reached around to hold Lexa by her waist, as gently as possible to avoid disturbing the wound. Together, they hobbled over to the tub, Clarke moving to lower Lexa into it as gently as possible. Although she looked away while doing so to avoid catching an eyeful of Lexa’s nether region, Clarke wasn’t blushing, which was both impressive and surprising.

 

When she was settled, Clarke made the smallest movement to leave, but a hand clutching at her coat halted her. “No.” The Commander croaked. “Stay. Please.”

 

_Stay._

 

Clarke turned so she was kneeling next to the tub, eye level with The Commander for once. “Of course.”

 

Lexa nodded and faced forward, leaning back into the tub with a wince. Clarke watched her rub her neck and shoulders, eyes squeezed shut in painful concentration, suddenly acquiring that same tingly feeling in her hands to touch her, rub the stress out of her with her own hands.

 

While she wasn’t paying attention, Clarke risked a glance at Lexa’s breasts, rising to her prominent collarbone and further still to her neck, where her hands were. Clarke wanted to massage it for her.

 

_With my lips._

 

“I brought you your cigarettes,” Clarke announced, shattering the silence. 

 

Lexa’s eyes opened, and she held a hand out expectantly. Clarke handed her the ashtray first, which Lexa balanced precariously on the edge of the tub, on the opposite side of where Clarke was. The bath was built into the back of the room, with walls surrounding it on all sides save for the one you entered from.

 

Clarke lit the cigarette before she passed it to Lexa, which made the woman smile in approval. She closed her eyes to breathe in the first puff, holding it for a moment, before exhaling it through her nose like wispy tusks. 

 

“You’re certain you don’t want one? This is one of the only chances you’ll get while you’re here.” Lexa offered a second time.

 

“Actually, yeah. I want one,” said Clarke, reaching forward to pluck Lexa’s cigarette out of her fingers and hold it between her own, sucking the lovely poison into her lungs. 

 

Lexa smirked. “Bold.”

 

“It’d be bolder if it weren’t just a cigarette,” Clarke answered, returning the smoke back to Lexa. “Why don’t you smoke cigars like a true Military Badass?”

 

“Too cliché,” said Lexa, tapping the ash into the tray beside her. “I’m classier than that. Although I do have an old box of hand-rolled ones in my office.”

 

Clarke raised her eyebrows, impressed. Before she could comment, however, Lexa turned to look at her, an eyebrow raised. “What do you mean, Military Badass?”

 

“Don’t play dumb.”

 

“I’m curious.”

 

“You know the girl I was driving the van with today told me you murdered an entire battalion with just two Uzis. That true?”

 

Lexa snorted in an adorable manner, Clarke’s heart fluttered in her chest. “That’s preposterous.”

 

She breathed a puff of her smoke, taking her sweet time exhaling it before finishing: “They weren’t Uzis. They were MP5K’s.”

 

It was Clarke’s turn to laugh, her first genuine one for a while. It echoed through the spacious bathroom, even pulling a solid chuckle out of The Commander. “You’re pretty funny for a stone-cold killer.”

 

“I’m _soo_ flattered.” Lexa dragged on dramatically, drawing even more laughter out of the women. Unfortunately, Lexa’s giggles soon turned to hisses of pain as she hunched over, clutching at her stomach.

 

Clarke’s smile faded and she reached out to examine it, only to recoil back after remembering Lexa’s current state of nakedness. Thankfully, after briefly rubbing at it, Lexa leaned back again. “It’s fine.”

 

“I think you probably say that too much,” Clarke commented. “It’s okay to feel things.”

 

Lexa didn’t respond. She pressed the butt of her cigarette into the ashtray after one final puff of its smoke. “Could you help me wash my hair, please,” she asked quietly. Clarke frowned at the return of her Commander’s shell, but nodded anyway, reaching into a nearby cupboard to retrieve three bottles and a jug.

 

“Lean forward,” she instructed, reaching down awkwardly to fill the jug with water. When one of her fingers clutching the handle grazed Lexa’s submerged leg, she was surprised to note that the brunette didn’t move away, but then again, neither did she.

 

When the jug was full Clarke rose to pull the braids out of Lexa’s hair, loosely combing her fingers through it to separate it. As she did so, her eyes fell upon the long tattoo decorating Lexa’s back, one which she had been too overwhelmed to notice earlier when Lexa was still a broken mess on the floor.

 

After pouring the water over Lexa’s hair, Clarke ghosted a finger over the ink but pulled away when Lexa shivered from her touch. “What does this one mean?” she asked, reaching for one of the bottles at her feet and squeezing a dollop into her palm.

 

“I got it when I first joined the military six years ago, along with the seven other Military Prep School early graduates.” Lexa began solemnly. “During our initiation tests I found out that one of them was an Ice Nation spy, but I didn’t know who. Back then I was weak, and I killed all of them in fear.”

 

Clarke’s eyes widened but she didn’t dare interrupt. Lexa gave a quiet moan when Clarke began massaging the shampoo into her scalp, a vulnerable noise sounding all the rarer coming from the tank of a woman below her fingertips.

 

“Instead of punishing me for my reckless behaviour, The Commander promoted me straight to Captain. He said he admired my mercilessness. He saw it as a skill many of his soldiers at the time lacked.”

 

“He must have been a ruthless Commander,” said Clarke before rinsing the shampoo out with another jug of water. She moved onto the conditioner next, rubbing it between her hands before lathering it into Lexa’s hair. “Ruthless, but obviously smart. You’re a good Commander.”

 

Lexa huffed an amused noise, but it wasn’t quite as cute as last time. “What would you know about a good Commander, Clarke?”

 

At the sound of her name on Lexa’s lips, a swarm of butterflies hatched in Clarke’s stomach, but she willed herself to digest them and answer. “You’re kinder to us than everyone else, yet your army is the most feared in the entire war. I guess you’re just the right blend of savagery and compassion.”

 

“Compassion…” Lexa echoed. Clarke couldn’t see from her position while she massaged conditioner into Lexa’s hair, but she knew for certain The Commander’s eyes were narrowed and her forehead creased in confusion. “I’ve been told I’m the harshest Commander the Army of Polis has ever had. How could I be compassionate?”

 

“You’re compassionate to us. You don’t shout at us for no reason, or shoot us when we don’t follow every instruction to perfect detail, you don’t mock us, harass us, or steal our property and kill our-“

 

“Clarke.”

 

The blonde blinked, quickly releasing her painfully tight grip on Lexa’s hair. She let go, groaned and rubbed at her temples, where a pounding headache had begun throbbing. “Sorry,” she muttered. “That hasn’t happened for a long time.”

 

Lexa nodded in understanding. She reached for the soap at Clarke’s feet and squirted it into her hands to spread over her body. “Titus wanted to torture you and the other Rebels for information, you know.”

 

“That’s not a bad idea,” Clarke stated ironically, pressing slow circles to the sides of her head to tame the bubbling feelings threatening to boil over. “Why haven’t you done that already?”

 

“We do. Only with the worst of them though. I couldn’t let him torture the ones like you, you were just doing what’s right for your people.”

 

“So there’s two categories, huh? The vigilantes and the true baddies. Good to know I haven’t quite reached that point yet.” Clarke said through gritted teeth.

 

Lexa winced. “I’m sorry.”

 

Clarke shook her head, too drained to hold a grudge. She’d worried this topic over and over for years, she was desperate to move on; her chance was right in front of her and she wasn’t about to waste it. “It’s alright. Let's just forget it, okay?”

 

While Lexa soaped her body, Clarke washed the conditioner out of her hair, leaving it glimmering and soft to the touch. When she was ready, Clarke helped Lexa out of the tub and carefully dried her off, avoiding her more intimate areas and prodding with expert delicacy at the skin around the wound to dry it.

 

Clarke helped Lexa back into her gown, drained the water and collected the ashtray before practically carrying the woman back to her room; she was now resting a significantly larger amount of her body on Clarke as she walked, but the blonde didn’t object.

 

After Lexa’s bandages were changed, she hooked back up and tucked into bed again, her hair loose, damp and likely to be a mussed disaster in the morning but neither woman could be bothered drying it. The lights automatically dimmed as evening approached; they were currently almost out completely, and Clarke was most certainly feeling the effects of both the night and a whole day of action.

 

The Commander was too, as she fell asleep almost the very moment her head hit the pillow, but not before giving Clarke permission to retire to her own barracks for the night.

 

She stayed anyway, her arms folded over her chest as she slouched on the chair next to Lexa’s bed, letting the laboured breathing of the Commander lull her into a well-deserved sleep.

 

***

 

0300 hours. She’d been up for half an hour now, trapped in a purgatory of near-sleep, always yanked back from the depths by one of Lexa’s muffled, disturbed noises.

 

Clarke considered waking her, comforting her, but after her squinted, bloodshot eyes noticed the pocket knife still laying merely a reach away from Lexa, she decided against it.

 

_What are you dreaming about..?_

 

Did the ghosts of those seven comrades she’d murdered in cold blood haunt her in her sleep? Was Anya demanding to know why she’d abandoned her back in Tondc? 

 

She was turned to face Clarke, her face twisted and emitting the occasional groan, her slim hand that peeked out from under the covers twitching like it was a malfunctioning device.

 

Thought process skewed from sleep deprivation, Clarke reached forward and clasped Lexa’s chilly hand between both of her own, gently as to not immediately wake her up.

 

Thankfully, she didn’t. In fact, after holding her hand for a few moments, Clarke smiled as she watched Lexa’s face slowly soften in her sleep, the intervals between her scared whimpers stretching larger and larger. 

 

Minutes passed without a peep from The Commander, her nightmare finally subsidising. Clarke nodded in satisfaction, slowly withdrawing her hands and folding her arms once again, allowing the new silence to drag her into the depths of slumber once again.


	7. Chapter 7

Clarke woke up predictably sore from spending the night in a chair, not to mention groggy from her early morning nightmare-slaying session. She glanced at the digital clock on Lexa’s bedside table: fast approaching 0900 hours. If she hurried, she could tame the growling in her stomach by grabbing a bite from the cafeteria.

 

She left Lexa to sleep, leaving her cigarettes, lighter, and ashtray on the table before exiting the room quietly as to not disturb her. Once out in the hallway, she stretched up to the ceiling and audibly cracked her neck, promising herself to consider pillows next time.

 

When she arrived at the cafeteria most staff were finishing up their meals or already leaving, and Clarke heard the overhead loudspeaker announce that there were only ten more minutes until breakfast was over. She scurried over to the serving counter, licking her lips briefly at the considerably more edible-looking selection of food behind the glass than that of the recruit barracks before she looked up and locked eyes with Jasper Jordan.

 

“Jasper? Why aren’t you with the troops in Tondc?”

 

The twig of a man shrugged, tell-tale signs of intoxication present in the sloppy way he grabbed a tray and gestured to the food he was serving. “They don’t trust me with a gun. What are you having?”

 

Clarke wanted to interrogate him further but spared him the energy. “Eggs, please. And toast and some beans. And sausage.”

 

“Damn girl, being The Commander’s bitch works up an appetite huh?”

 

“What?” Clarke barked, not even sure what to address first. “I’m not her- who told you I was working for her?”

 

Jasper snorted, dumping a pile of scrambled eggs onto the tray. “We all know. It’s the talk of the town. Hell, we’re placing bets on exactly what she’s doing with you.”

 

Clarke grimaced, not needing to hear what came out of Jasper’s mouth next to know what kind of talk he was referring to. “I put a dime bag on she’s using you for, ya know, favors.”

 

“She’s not.” Clarke denied through gritted teeth. “She got shot yesterday. I’m healing her.”

 

“Oh yeah? How exactly are you healing her?” Jasper asked as he placed the tray now full of food atop the counter. “Are you soothing her pain? Comforting her? I hope she’s at least offering you perks and shit.”

 

“Fuck you, Jasper.” Clarke spat, grabbing the tray and turning on her heel to leave. She only managed a few steps before she waltzed right back, face still twisted in anger as she spoke to him. “What else are people assuming?”

 

Jasper scratched at his disheveled head, seemingly narrowing down the options. “Umm… Lots of them reckon you’re gonna kill her. You know, Rebel Princess style.”

 

“Don’t call me that. That’s not me anymore.”

 

“Maybe it should be,” Jasper stated, followed by the clatter of his spoon dropping onto the work bench. The sound rang through the cafeteria, causing the very few heads in the room to turn to him, but he swiftly got back to work to avoid raising alarms.

 

Despite his resumed focus, however, Clarke could see him scowling, at her, at himself. “We need you, Clarke. You could kill her so easily, why won’t you?”

 

“It’s not that simple. You can’t just take out their leader and expect everything to fall into place from there.” Clarke sighed, her anger fading away into pity for the broken man in front of her. Once upon a time, this had been her; helpless, desperate for vengeance, a blind follower of the glorious, hideous Rebellion.

 

“I’m sorry. I’m not part of that anymore.”

 

Jasper jutted out his jaw, his eyebrows furrowed as he nodded in pseudo understanding. He leaned forward, over the counter, so close that Clarke could smell the cannabis he’d roasted this morning. “Then you’re no better than them.”

 

***

 

Clarke ate, checked Lexa, and showered all in the space of less than an hour in a marginally successful attempt to digest what Jasper had told her. Yes, the theories about what exactly she’d been doing for the past twenty-four hours made her skin crawl but mainly, that final venom he’d spat before she’d left to tend to her hollow stomach.

 

It was all she could think about as she scurried about the wards running errands; Jake’s final words to her echoing through her mind, Chancellor Kane’s forlorn expression as he’d sent her away to prison, the disapproval on her mother’s face when she’d come home covered in soot, the symbol of the Rebellion displayed proudly on her uniform like a badge of honour.

 

While he hadn’t come right out and said it, Clarke knew what Jasper had been thinking. He probably wasn’t the only one. As Jake’s daughter, she’d always been expected to carry his legacy forward, not only follow the trail he blazed but re-ignite it brighter, hotter.

 

That was what everyone else had wanted, herself included. But not him. 

 

Clarke couldn’t forget that final evening they’d spent together, Abby out working a late-night shift at the hospital, just the two of them curled up on the couch of their tiny apartment. Her father had pressed his watch into Clarke’s palm, kissed her forehead, took his jacket and left into the night. For work, he’d said. Somehow Clarke had known he wasn’t coming back.

 

An hour later and Clarke hadn’t moved but was joined by Abby, sobbing in her arms while the news droned on about Rebels disguised as Military Officers that had infiltrated the building where Arkadia’s fate would be decided. Each of them had moved to a different room and detonated the bombs concealed in their jackets at the same time, leaving no survivors.

 

Clarke remembered crying even harder at the news the next day, which revealed that the man to replace Chancellor Jaha, killed in the explosion, had finalized the Alliance. Arkadia was now a Polis territory. Her father had died for nothing.

 

Three years later and Clarke had been out of action for two of them. Jasper, Finn, how many others probably viewed her as a disgrace to her father’s legend?

 

Would he feel the same way? Or would he be prouder of her for moving on?

 

After changing the bandages of an injured soldier in Ward 2, Clarke decided to stop entertaining her vengeful feelings before she fell down the rabbit hole again. And what better way to kill the thoughts than by visiting the one person who could make her instantly forget them?

 

When she arrived at her room, Lexa was awake, sat up and finishing her smoke, pressing it into the nest of cigarette butts accumulated in her ashtray. 

 

“Good morning.” Clarke tried.

 

“It’s midday.”

 

“Right, right.”

 

It was difficult to tell from the lack of windows in the room; the only reason the space wasn't being cooked by the harsh sun outside was the air conditioning and ventilation. The hospital was as much a high-class security fortification as every other building was.

 

Clarke strolled over to her patient, peeling off her blanket and folding it just above her abdomen. “I need to change your bandages.”

 

Lexa nodded.

 

It was a slightly awkward maneuver, but Clarke managed to push the gown up just enough to expose the bandages, soaked in black from a night of unhealthy jostling. Clarke avoided looking down at Lexa’s now exposed thighs and standard, white hospital undergarments, but after the events of yesterday evening, there wasn’t much more to be awkward between them.

 

Clarke carefully removed and discarded the stained material, dampening a cloth at the sink before gently cleaning away some of the blood that had leaked out and dried on Lexa’s skin. “This is one hell of a mutation,” Clarke muttered, examining the already healing bullet wound.

 

“We call it Nightblood. It’s hereditary, there’s only a handful of bloodlines with it left.” Lexa answered automatically.

 

“Does it do anything?”

 

“No. There’s a myth that it provides heightened combat abilities, so many of us train to join the Military. It’s not true. It’s just a different hue. That’s all.”

 

Clarke nodded, pressing a fresh bandage over the now clean wound. “It’s pretty cool, I think.”

 

“Thank you, Clarke.”

 

There it was again, her name, a new set of butterflies swarming in her stomach. She adored the sound but it wasn’t difficult to tell something was off in Lexa’s voice. “Is something wrong? Are you in pain?”

 

Lexa pulled her gown back over her body once the bandage was in place but left the blanket where it was. “I’m bored.” She answered flatly.

 

Well, it had to happen sooner or later. Clarke had figured out that she wasn’t alone in her need to occupy her mind at all times; they both had demons to distract. “Um, I’m not sure I can fix that.”

 

“When will I be able to leave?”

 

Clarke’s eyebrows knitted together for a moment. “If you take crutches or a walking stick with you when you leave, probably in a couple more days.”

 

Lexa pouted and folded her arms in what would have seemed an immature manner had it been anyone else. On her, it was mere annoyance. “Too long.”

 

“Is there a bus to catch or something?”

 

“We must recapture Tondc soon, or they will end reinforcements from the North and overpower us.”

 

“Didn’t Titus say he would handle that? You’re injured, you can relax a little.”

 

“No, I can’t.” Lexa snapped, her volume increasing sharply. Clarke recoiled back, her hands raised slightly in submission. 

 

At the sight of this, Lexa sighed and lowered her head, carding fingers through her tangled hair, clearly disgruntled from being slept on while wet. “I’ve upset you again.”

 

Clarke shook her head, laying a hand on Lexa’s shoulder in an act that twenty-four hours ago would have seemed unthinkable. “It’s okay. Look, you’re tense, and as your doctor I’m… ordering you to relax. Okay, I’m more like, politely requesting that you relax so you heal better.”

 

Clarke smiled at the amused huff she earned for her remark, last night’s bathroom banter briefly resurfacing in her mind.

 

Lexa sat back up, reaching to her nightstand and retrieving a cigarette. “Fine,” she agreed, bringing the item to her lips only for it to be snatched away by Clarke.

 

“Enough. They’re unhealthy and this is a hospital.” The blonde scolded, dropping it back on the nightstand. “Now, tell me, surely you must spend your spare time doing something you like. If you even have spare time...”

 

“I read. But there’s no books here, only silly tabloids." Lexa explained with a stuck-up grimace.

 

“I can go get you one.”

 

The Commander bit her in thought lip and Clarke nearly melted at such a gorgeous sight. “All my books are in Titus’ study, and he’s not overly fond of you.”

 

Clarke threw her hands up and shrugged. “What’s he gonna do, decline me and upset his superior when I return to her empty handed?”

 

“Fair point,” Lexa answered. She reached for the clipboard and pen on the chair next to her bed and tore off a piece of paper from the back, scribbling something down before handing the note to Clarke. “He should be in his study at the Command Base. Just show him and any other guards you see that note and they’ll let you pass.”

 

Clarke examined the note, her eyes tracing over the sloppily written permission she’d been granted, authorized by a signature and what she assumed was a password in a language she couldn’t read.

 

“What book should I get?”

 

“Just ask Titus for my favorite. He’ll know.”

 

Clarke nodded and flicked her hand in goodbye, silently hoping she would manage to return here in one piece after coming face to face with someone perhaps more nightmarish than Gustus.

 

The book, too, would be a nice bonus.


	8. Chapter 8

The Commander’s note was heavy in Clarke’s pocket as she strolled towards one of the Jeeps parked outside the Hospital and swung into the driver’s seat. It was an expensive weight, like a gold bar or a loaded gun; a luxury few could afford, Akradian or otherwise.

 

She wanted to abuse it, reap its benefits like a greedy businessman but there was only so much the notorious Rebel Princess could get away with before someone pounced on her. She figured Lexa would fall asleep eventually, and she’d have a few hours to herself, so she drove the Jeep leisurely to the hospital where she’d previously worked and its conditions she didn’t miss in the slightest.

 

Abby was tending to a man wounded from a Tondc battle when Clarke arrived. They embraced briefly, no number of hugs even slightly making up for the two years of lost time between them. “Need some help?” Clarke asked when she pulled away, scanning the room full to the seams with injured soldiers.

 

“Shouldn’t you be with The Commander?” Abby asked, returning to her patient. 

 

“I’m getting something for her, I have some spare time.” said Clarke. “How do you even know about that?”

 

“Everyone knows, Griffin.” A familiar voice croaked from behind Clarke. She turned and gasped at the sight of Octavia, bloodied, bruised and beaten on a tiny bed.

 

“What happened to you?” Clarke asked, already prodding hands over the soldier checking for broken bones or shrapnel. 

 

Octavia coughed and shoved the invading hands away. “I’m fine, just a bit roughed up. I got back this morning, my squad got crushed under a building they blew up. Only half of us made it back.”

 

Her words created an image all too detailed in Clarke’s mind. Waves of scorching heat preceded by deafening explosions, those unfortunate enough to be caught in the flames themselves suffering a horrific incineration. She remembered Anya and Lexa, tossed out onto the street like a couple pieces of rubbish; one more organic than the other.

 

“It seems like we’re suffering a lot of casualties,” Clarke muttered.

 

“Nah. We’re destroying them. We’re just losing a few in the process is all. We’ve already captured pretty much all of the South. We’re set to have the North by the end of next week.” Octavia explained.

 

Clarke examined Octavia’s body for a moment, splattered with both her own and the blood of others, adding red-hot fire to the forest that was the camouflage design underneath. A hardened soldier. “Is Bellamy back too?”

 

Octavia shook her head grimly. “Still fighting.”

 

“I see… Hold on, you said everyone knows, but from who? It happened yesterday!” Clarke demanded suddenly, and Abby shot her warning look before another senior officer could.

 

“Do you know that one doctor, Nyko?” 

 

“The nice one, yes.”

 

“Yeah exactly, the nice one. He told Finn about it while he was getting his arm treated by him and it spread from there.”

 

Finn. Of course. That shaggy-haired imbecile had never quite been one for secrecy. Clarke bristled at the memory of the days following their intimacy one lonely night back in Corrections, and the knowing looks, jeers, and insults thrown at her left right and center.

 

Clarke could see him now, a crowd of recruits gathered around him at a table in the mess hall, spouting out some tangent about how she was bound to Lexa now, forced to fulfill her needs, possibly gaining satisfaction of her own out of the deal. Once he and his banter had been charming. Now, Clarke tolerated him more out of convenience than anything else.

 

“It’s not what you think it is.”

 

“I don’t care what it is. Just don’t forget about us, okay?” Octavia said with a welcoming smile. Clarke returned it, looking around the room for any other soldiers who might require her aide. She spotted several instantly, and fished a mask and gloves out her coat pocket, throwing them on before scuttling off to get to work.

 

***

 

It must have been over three hours when Clarke finally decided Lexa would probably be waking up soon, or at the very least be getting very angry at her nurse’s delay.

 

Abby thanked Clarke for her help and squeezed her one last time before sending her off on her way. “Be safe.” she called out as Clarke left, and the blonde couldn’t help but find it strange. She had remind herself how Lexa seemed to others. That she was potentially the only one who’d seen her other sides.

 

The thought made her grin as she cruised over to the barracks in the Jeep, making one final stop before she moved to the Command Base. Upon entering the girl’s barracks, Clarke noticed a young woman in Engineering uniform crouched at the back of the long room, tinkering with the control grid built into the wall.

 

To her surprise and later annoyance, Finn stood right next to her. “Yo.” he greeted, lifting his head at her before returning to look at the woman next to him.

 

“I’m pretty sure this is the girl’s barracks.” Clarke said as she made her way over to her bed, pulling her small box of belongs out from underneath it.

 

“Relax girl, he’s with me.” The woman answered on Finn’s behalf.

 

Clarke frowned. “And who are you?”

 

“Name’s Raven.” she answered flatly, followed by a sharp, snapping noise accompanying a fountain of sparks leaking from the grid. “Ow! Fuck!”

 

Clarke watched curiously as Finn knelt next to Raven, examining with considerable attention the burn she’d just acquired. His usually absent concern for someone else’s well-being other than his own confirmed her suspicions. Raven, the girl he’d gotten himself thrown in prison for.

 

Raven, the thieving Military Mechanic who let her boyfriend take the blame for her crimes instead of facing the music herself. Clarke couldn’t fault her; from what she’d heard of the girl, Finn was hopelessly in love with her, and she the same. 

 

Clarke suddenly found herself wondering if Raven knew of her and Finn’s past encounters. Especially the ones where clothes were not present.

 

“So what brings you here, Raven?” Clarke asked, distracting herself from those memories.

 

“One of you ladies was fucking with this grid last night and broke it, and now half the damn building doesn’t have power. Hey, did you see who did it?”

 

Before Clarke could answer, Finn jumped to explain. “Nah Clarke hasn’t been here. She sleeps with The Commander now.”

 

Again, Clarke opened her mouth to protest, only to be interrupted by Raven’s impressed ‘Nice,’ accompanied by her nod of acknowledgment.

 

“Shut up Finn. I’m not sleeping with her.”

 

_Not in the colloquial sense at least…_

 

“I didn’t think so. I’ve never seen her with anyone, and according to the boys at the Warehouse, she’s never had a bedmate in all her years of being here. Tough nut to crack I guess.”

 

Clarke ignored Finn’s immature chuckle and nudge of Raven’s shoulder. She dismissed both of them, fishing her sketchpad and a set of pencils out of her box, grazing her fingers over the watch briefly. Just for a moment. Now wasn’t the place.

 

She couldn’t reminisce about Jake while racking her brains over Lexa’s apparent lack of partners, yet such…

 

Promiscuous wasn’t the right word. For all Clarke knew she could just be very confident in her own skin, comfortable showing it off even to Arkadian Prisoners she’d known for less than a day.With a body like hers, it made perfect sense too. Toned belly, tattoos bulging on rippling biceps, supple breasts, and overall sleek figure…

 

No bedmate but probably plenty of suitors.

 

“Nice meeting you, Raven.” Clarke announced, rising to her feet.

 

“Running back to her so soon? You should stay, hang with us.” Finn called out to her.

 

“Tempting. But no. She’ll, um, get angry. Bye.”

 

Clarke didn’t bother to hear what either of them had to say, dashing out of the room and the barracks entirely only to leap back into the Jeep yet again, showing no restraint this time in her haste to her final location. 

***

The Command Base was unguarded, and Clarke was able to scuttle through the hallway; slowing to pass The Commander’s office, until she finally arrived at Titus’ study, marked with a smaller version of the Commander’s Emblem, and lacking in the red frame around the door.

 

_Rat-at-tat._

 

The knock she received in response was far too calculated to be coincidence, and Clarke sighed when she realized Lexa was apparently not the only member of this Army that favored the language of dots and dashes. 

 

_Knock. Knock. Scratch. Scratch. Knock. Knock._

 

A plain question mark. Vague.

 

Clarke responded in a series of scratches and taps of her own she could only hope Titus was quick thinking enough to decipher.

 

G-R-I-F-F-I-N.

 

The door opened slowly to reveal a cantankerous figure scowling at Clarke through the narrow slit to which he granted her access. “I’m impressed someone such as you understood.”

 

Clarke didn’t entertain his mockery. She handed him the note, which he snatched away and frowned at as if questioning the legitimacy of it. “The Commander is bored,” she began, speaking before he could dismiss her. “She asked for something to read. Her favorite. Apparently, you’ll know which one that is.”

 

“Of course I know what it is,” Titus growled. Clarke shuffled back, poised and ready to run in case the beast lost his temper. 

 

Thankfully, all he did was retreat into his lair and retrieve a black and white covered book, shoving it into Clarke’s hands before slamming the door in her face as though she were a door salesman on a Saturday morning. Not that any salesman was brave or stupid enough to do such a thing anymore.

 

Clarke was partially grateful for the rushed ending; she didn’t have to say thank you if there was suddenly no one to show gratitude to. Not that Titus deserved even the slightest hint of civility.

***

 

Lexa was curled up in bed when Clarke arrived, the pocket knife clutched in her talons that was flicked closed the very moment her nurse returned. 

 

“That’s sharp, you know.” Clarke greeted. “You should be careful.”

 

“What took you so long?” Lexa demanded, rolling over to face Clarke as she sat down in the chair.

 

“I was helping my mom at the hospital. Ran into some friends. I’m sorry,” she explained, the ‘sorry’ part coming out much more relaxed than was probably warranted.

 

But Lexa didn’t react to Clarke's subtle insubordinate traits. She simply pulled the blankets tighter around herself, the Great Commander, wrapped in a fluffy duvet like a snuggled up kitten. Clarke had to work great efforts to keep from grinning from ear to ear.

 

“Here,” she offered, holding the book out. “I got it.”

 

“I’m too tired to read now.” Lexa managed to say through a yawn, another adorable cat-like action. She must have slept all day but was still tired; Clarke noted to check her morphine dosages while she slept.

 

But apparently, she wasn’t quite ready for that yet. “Read it to me. Please.”

 

“Um, are you sure?”

 

Lexa shut her eyes and sighed out through her nose. “Yes. From the beginning. Skip the Author’s Note.”

 

Clarke managed to pull herself together long enough to utter out an ‘okay’. She pulled the book back to examine the cover, the title: Noughts and Crosses, written in alternating black and white colors in a font that reminded Clarke of the Army she served in.

 

“Okay,” Clarke repeated, fingers shaking as she flipped the book open. “Chapter one. ‘It was a typical early Summer’s day…’”

 

***

 

By the time Clarke noticed Lexa had fallen asleep she was nearly a quarter of the way through the entire book, which really was quite gripping. She marked the page with one of her pencils and placed it under her chair, opting to ask to borrow it in the morning.

 

Her eyes then fell upon The Commander’s sleeping form, thankfully still and apparently free of those troubling thoughts that had made her stir last night. While Clarke was more than happy to comfort her through quiet hand-holding, she didn’t wish nightmares on the woman, even if it gave her an excuse to touch her.

 

No, the calm pleased her. It was exactly what she’d wanted when she’d taken her sketchbook from the barracks, feeling opportunistic with her new freedom.

 

Clarke chose a page long after the ones filled with omens of war, her eyes flicking from page to Commander as she sketched. It had been so long since she’d held a pencil creatively, never mind since she’d drawn something as beautiful as the sight before her.

 

Beautiful, but dangerous. Stunning, but rigid. Courageous, but terrified.

 

Clarke wanted to discover every dimension, every curve, every side, vertex and corner to her mind. To her body. She watched the rise and fall of her chest, longing to hear her heartbeat closer; was it slow like a creature void of care, or as rapid as a fleeing animal, or the predator in pursuit?

 

She drew Lexa’s sleeping form without the blankets. Or the clothes. She drew Lexa in her Commander’s uniform, in a standard soldier outfit, in several other outfits ranging from comical to sinful. The image of Lexa’s naked body was something forever imprinted on Clarke’s mind, and now on paper.

 

For all her emotional suppression, her lack of feeling; she couldn't deny the desire. Oh, she wanted Lexa like a dog wants chocolate. Like an addict wants a pill. 

Like a Criminal wants her Commander.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So those of you who have read it will understand the significance of it, but for the rest of you, Noughts and Crosses by Malorie Blackman is a romance between two members of opposing groups; the oppressive and the oppressed. It's a little hard to explain without spoiling the plot but anyway, it's a Romeo and Juliet type, just like this. great book, I highly recommend it 
> 
> Btw, thank you guys for your continued support, it genuinely makes me smile every time <3


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a lil short but I think you guys will enjoy it ;)

_A silent chamber reserved for the rest of The Commander, the serene palace to which she retired to after a day of plotting, planning, and potentially fighting. A peaceful box furnished with a single bed, a small double, for her to curl up and recharge the energy that kept the entire Military powered. Scented candles melted under a welcoming flame, breathing soothing aromas over the occupant._

_But it was two occupants. And together, their activities were anything but tranquil._

_Shaking legs rested on The Commander’s broad shoulders, firmly gripped by two talons Clarke had once found to be soft. Hands belonging to powerful, flexed arms, tattooed on one side and beaded with sweat. The peace of the room was now dominated by breathy panting and gaps, among other guttural sounds._

_Deep between the legs that extended into the air, The Commander’s artificial organ was buried within the crease its owner had claimed as her own. Flat on the bed, she felt every inch of its silicone length, the bed squeaking beneath her with each thrust. Even without the hot throbbing of a man’s organic member, she still felt Lexa’s raw power through every shallow stroke, every grunt she struggled to hold back._

_Yes, she was a beast, but not without concern. The strategic wit that had won the Army of Polis countless battles was now used to conquer the map of the woman below her. Greedy claws sliced through the dark to grope breasts as they bounced with the jerks of The Commander’s hips, dragging down to massage the aching bud of flesh that peeked out appetizingly from within protective folds._

_Her attack was calculated to every last detail as if she were sieging an enemy base. The Commander’s main force continued to harass the Rebel Princess’ inner spot, her back arching so high off the bed in ecstasy that cool air swept into the gap between her body and the mattress below. Fingers dug into the sheets and teeth held a fresh, lower lip, enamored blue eyes gazing into focused greens._

_Never before had Clarke Griffin felt so vulnerable; completely at the mercy of the animal above her, huffing and growling like a hunter, shoving herself into her prey._

_She was sprawled out, legs open and in the air, choking back cries of unimaginable pleasure and the name of the woman who could kill her whenever she wanted._

_But she’d never felt quite so safe._

***

 

Last night's drawings were not intended to be erotic. Not in the slightest. They were but a way to keep her mind occupied while she waited for fatigue to claim her, and forever etch Lexa’s flawless figure into her book, like it was some prized possession that needed to be marked somehow.

 

Waking up with wet undergarments between quivering thighs had not been the end goal. Not at all.

 

But there was no time to change; The Commander was awake and groaning in pain. Clarke rose from her makeshift ‘bed’; the two chairs facing each other to provide a space for her to curl up on, flinched when she felt the ever-present slickness and hurried over to Lexa’s side.

 

“Shit,” Clarke muttered, both at the sight of the blood-soaked bandages beneath the cloak and at seeing Lexa’s flesh again, the ache in her pants throbbing enthusiastically in agreement.

 

As she moved to wet a cloth in the sink there came a tapping at the door, which Lexa answered with a weak ‘Enter.’

 

The door was opened to reveal the stern, tattooed face of General Indra; seemingly scowling at everything except the woman in the hospital bed. “Forgive me for intruding, Commander, but you have a meeting with Chancellor Kane and the Council in two hours regarding the new Arkadian jets you ordered?”

 

Clarke could have looked upset at the statement had she not been busy suppressing the afterthoughts of her dream. Cloth in hand, she returned to Lexa and removed the blackened bandages, thoroughly cleaning the wound and applying a fresh set of bandages over the top. 

 

Clarke wondered if Lexa was just being modest about the supposed lack of benefit of Nightblood; the bullet wound was healing abnormally quickly, damage that should be taking weeks to repair was already starting to scar after barely a few days.

 

Lexa winced at the pressure of the bandages, Clarke heard Indra take a step towards her, The Commander’s dismissive hand assuring her it was safe. “Have Titus discuss them on my behalf.”

 

“Unfortunately, that’s not an option, Commander.” Indra began cautiously. “Titus had informed me he is completely backed up with Tondc work today. He also says he refuses to meet with Kane unless you give him permission to drive a knife into his throat.”

 

A wide-eyed Clarke watched Lexa grind her teeth in irritation, pretending to still be busy with the already applied bandages. “Very well. I will meet him in the Command Base at 1200 hours.”

 

“What? No. You can’t.”

 

Both Grounder’s heads turned to Clarke, one curious, one furious. “What did you just say?” Indra growled, stepping towards the blonde again. Lexa allowed her to get a little closer this time, before signaling her to stay still.

 

“Explain yourself,” Lexa ordered in that deep tone that was even more exciting given the circumstance.

 

Clarke swallowed before answering, suddenly parched. “You’re not healed yet. You can’t just go walking around.” she stammered.

 

“Do you doubt your Commander’s strength?!”

 

“Control yourself, Indra.” Lexa snarled, and the older woman backed away like a startled puppy. “I can go, Clarke. Just for a few hours,” she added, turning back to her doctor.

 

The blonde removed her hand from Lexa’s abdomen, trailing her fingers along the grainy material she’d left there before sighing in defeat. “Take crutches and don’t stand for too long. Try not to smoke and come back here immediately after. Okay?”

 

As Clarke spoke, Lexa was already fiddling with the tubes she was hooked up to, as eager to go outside as an excitable puppy. Clarke disconnected her from her chains and held her arms as she struggled to sit up, seated with her legs over the side of the bed.

 

Indra looked on in disbelief until Lexa addressed her again, forcing her out of her daze. “Take me to my chambers, Indra. I will not see Kane dressed like this.”

 

“Yes, Commander.”

 

Clarke stepped back to let Indra stand with The Commander, ignoring the glare she shot in her direction. Lexa held tight into the General as she helped her to her feet, a closeness that made Clarke grit her teeth in petty jealousy, until she was standing awkwardly on one foot, resting on the other woman.

 

“You may take a break, Clarke. I will send someone to find you when it’s time to return.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

And then Clarke was alone in the room, having watched The Commander limp away holding onto the tank that was The General. She ran a hand through her messy blonde locks, heaved a great sigh, and thanked whoever was watching that neither of them had questioned the open sketchbook laying underneath the chairs next to Lexa’s bed.

 

***

 

For safe keeping, Clarke took Lexa’s book with her when she returned to the barracks, as well as her book of sinful sketches. She had hidden both items in the box under her bed, fished a towel and a fresh set of clothes from the drawers in her nightstand, and was now alone in the shower block, her solitude the blessing that came with taking her daily shower several hours after the rest of the recruits.

 

Usually, the block would be teeming with naked bodies wrapped in towels, waiting patiently in front of a shower stall for the person currently using it to get their two-minute cleaning time over and done with. But this was not a usual time, and there was no guard to make sure all showers taken were Military style and miserable.

 

Clarke had all the time in the world to scrub herself, wash her oily hair, and of course; relieve the frustration built up from a night and morning of lust. She leaned against the side of the stall, one hand pressed back against the cold, metallic surface she rested on, the other working in a similar manner that the Lexa of her dreams had been.

 

_Two fingers holding her open, one rubbing torturously at her engorged pearl…_

 

She had been the same emotionless dictator that she was when addressing her subordinates, that same dominating presence that Clarke wanted both to conquer and be conquered by. Lexa was both an unyielding fortress and a temple waiting to be explored. It was both unfortunate and exciting to close her eyes and see only the former, a brute that fucked; no love making. An animal that bit; no kissing.

 

_A beast that would rub just like this…_

 

Clarke hissed and bit her lip in pleasurable masochism, dragging her nail ever so gently over her bud. Two other fingers found her entrance and penetrated as agonizingly slowly as Lexa would have, or wouldn’t have. For all Clarke knew she didn’t own sex toys such as the one in mind. For all Clarke knew she had an entire chest full of them.

 

That was the power of her imagination. The same artistic mind that had sketched almost every curve of Lexa last night, the strong, chiseled yet sensual build that held her legs on either side of her head, pushing Clarke to an edge neither Finn or Niylah ever could have. 

 

And it hadn’t even been real.

 

After all the tension of the morning, it didn’t take long for Clarke to throw her head back, nails scratching desperately at the wall and moaning out as she found that sweet release of Lexa’s mercy. But when she opened her eyes, it was her own hand squeezed between her quivering thighs, and she was staring into a steamy waterfall, not the eyes of The Commander.

 

But in a few hours, she would be. She would face her again, those piercing green eyes she wanted to stare up into, part of the same gorgeous face she wanted to press her lips to, on the same neck she wanted to mark like her property.

 

Just another feeling to suppress.


	10. Chapter 10

The post-climax feeling was as hollow as it was satisfying. It was a temporary buzz like a pill or a bandage; you could use them on the battle field to alleviate your symptoms but if you didn’t get care soon, you’d die. It was simple.

 

Death wasn’t quite so much a threat as it was a hyperbole in this case. Clarke knew the worst possible scenario would be suffering through the feeling for however much longer it lasted for until it eventually was squashed into nothing by her subconscious. 

At her healing rate, Lexa would only need Clarke for a few more weeks at most. Then, she’d be back to commanding her army into battle, and she back to patching it up afterward.

 

It would only be a little while longer until she became another face among the masses. So really, it made no sense for her to be lying across her bed like this, feet flat on the blanket and sketchbook resting on thighs while she refined last night’s creations.

 

Clarke’s uniform had begun to smell foul with disease and labor, so she discarded it into the laundry before donning the standard cadet outfit; camo-colored pants and a low-cut white shirt that displayed more cleavage than she would have liked, her dog-tags extending down over it.

 

This was the uniform of the standard forces she was blessed not to have been selected for. Clarke wondered as she scratched the tip of her pencil over a blurry sketch line just how many of the original hundred were left; how many of them had died over the past few days, their brains leaking out from bullet holes onto the sidewalk they were left on, limbs and ligaments blown off by explosives to be consumed by scavengers.

 

She shivered at the thought. She and Wells were lucky, they didn’t need to fear for their lives every minute of the day. How many of them were out there now, cowered behind a chunk of wall, enemy bullets hitting the surface that protected them with a clean _plink_ upon impact.

 

Wells would probably be assisting them, sending out coordinates, relaying messages; he was busy. But luxurious, privileged boredom was a force to be reckoned with; Clarke stuffed the sketchbook into her box and left the barracks in search of her friend.

 

Apart from Octavia, whom she wasn’t all that great friends with anyway, Wells was the one companion Clarke had within the hundred. They had their differences; as Chancellor Jaha’s son, Wells had once been supportive of the Polis-Arkadia alliance, a political difference between them that had nearly cost the two their friendship.

 

But after Jaha’s death, it didn’t matter who was responsible, something had snapped within Wells and released a tactical genius the Rebellion used to terrorize both their own nation and Polis. Throughout imprisonment, their bond had only strengthened; by now it was thick enough Clarke almost wanted to tell him about her struggle with The Commander, but something told her it was better kept to herself.

 

Outside the Barracks the land was organized and flat; patches of trimmed grass flanked the roads the vans and Jeeps occasionally rumbled across, a Military suburbia shadowed by a dark sky full of inky clouds, bloated with Summer rain.

 

Clarke explored the camp for a while, touring the facilities with one of the Jeeps while she waited for 1700 hours to roll around, the time when the lower ranks were excused until emergency notice or the next day’s shift. 

 

She waited outside the Communications hub in the vehicle, drumming her fingers impatiently on the wheel as she surveyed the faces of the staff emerging from the building, searching them for her friend. When he finally appeared, she revved the engine once to get his attention, deciding against a honk after noting the skeptical glances of some Grounder staff, wary of the stray Jeep parked nearby their base.

 

Wells flashed her a toothy grin and hurried over, sliding into the driver’s seat and pulling Clarke into an embrace. His uniform was notably more formal than hers; Communications officers wore dark gray jumpsuits with their emblem stitched onto the chest pocket and sleeves.

 

Clarke moved the Jeep into drive once they separated, and Wells clicked his seatbelt on upon with an eyebrow raised. “We going for a drive? We don’t need to be at the mess hall for another hour.”

 

“Just a cruise.” Clarke began. “How did it go today? Any news?”

 

“We recaptured the Tondc communication hub, so we can talk to the troops there now. We’re using it to scramble signals the occupying Ice Nation troops are trying to send for reinforcements.”

 

Clarke smiled, genuinely pleased at the victory for her Army. “I’m surprised they haven’t completely withdrawn yet.”

 

“Well, it’s tough. There is still a chance for them to push us out.”

 

“As if they could, the fuckers.” Clarke seethed. The Ice Nation was the only clan the Rebellion had hated more than Polis, and it had since become the worst enemy of almost every clan. They held more Arkadian prisoners of war than Clarke could imagine without getting emotional, they had more forces than Polis but lacked the management to utilize them correctly.

 

The Ice Nation was large and formidable but Polis was wealthy and intelligent; with Lexa at the helm, even an army half the size of the Ice Nation’s was strong enough to emerge victorious from every skirmish. 

 

“From what I hear their getting stronger. Pretty soon Polis might have to discuss an Armistice.”

 

Clarke imagined The Commander with a staff instead of a sword, flying it with a white sheet of surrender. The resulting smirk was both bemused and dreamy; anything involving Lexa was smile-invoking these days. “The Commander would never.”

 

“What if it was the only way to end the war without losing all her people?”

 

The Jeep slowed around a corner and came to a stop. Clarke frowned at her friend, examining his blank expression. “What are you talking about? You know how strong we are.”

 

Wells reached into his chest pocket and produced a folded-up sheet of paper, offering it out to Clarke. “ _We_ are strong. Polis isn’t.”

 

Clarke unfolded the paper as he spoke, her eyes narrowing with every inch of print she spotted. On the paper was a distorted image of Pike’s upper body, arms folded and sleeves rolled up to his elbows to proudly display the Arkadian Emblem burned into the skin of his forearm.

 

Below him, the words ‘SKY MEETS SNOW’ headed the paragraph below, which Clarke read with difficulty due to her shaking hands constantly moving the page. Pike, the most patriotic, anti-Grounder, Arkadian Independence advocate had met with the Ice Nation foreign affairs ambassador.

 

Not only had he met with her and not been murdered, but he’d discussed an alliance that could completely shift the war like a tectonic plate rips the earth apart.

 

“This won’t work.” Clarke snarled, crushing the paper in her fist. Wells let her, watching with an indifferent expression as she stuffed the thing into her pocket in untamed rage. “The Ice Nation will be even more controlling than Polis. Or Pike will try to control them and get us all killed. Or Polis will fight back and start controlling us even more to make sure we don’t start another uprising, or-“

 

A hand on her shoulder stopped her slurred rambling. “Easy, Clarke.” a soothing voice cooed. “Nothing has happened yet.”

 

“It can’t happen. It can’t.”

 

Wells reached for his friend’s hand and simply held it in his own, no squeeze, just a presence. He was good like that. Wells, her shoulder to cry on, her knight in shining armor. Wells, the boy she thought had her back.

 

“It must.”

 

Clarke’s head whipped around to look at him so fast he feared her neck might snap. “What?”

 

“We can’t live like this forever. Something must be done.”

 

“And you think this is the way? Jeopardizing what little peace we have only to go and put us in even more danger?”

 

Wells held Clarke in a sad stare, his usually warm, brown eyes frozen cold. “There is no peace under their rule. It’s a shame you can’t see that anymore.”

 

Clarke turned to look back at the windshield, her jaw quivering, blood boiling. She smacked both hands back on the wheel, gripping the thing with white knuckles to keep from striking him right then and there. “Get out of the car.”

 

“Clarke-“

 

“Get the _fuck_ out.”

 

Despite his apparent political obliviousness, Wells was remarkably emotionally intelligent. He stepped out of the Jeep quietly, and Clarke sped away without another word, leaving him to find his own way to the mess hall he was due at in an hour.

 

***

 

Halfway through the evening meal was when Clarke was summoned. She’d been hunched over a plate of cold chicken and potatoes next to Finn, ignoring his comments about Well’s absence. Clarke hadn’t the energy or the compassion to care.

 

Not when he was supportive of a movement that could only end in more bloodshed than it was worth.

 

When he arrived, Sergeant Gustus yanked Clarke away from the table by her arm, shoving Finn to the ground when he rose up to defend her. Clarke knew better than to fight it; she walked behind him as quickly as she could to avoid the pain of his iron-grip on her limb.

 

When they were in the elevator en route to the higher levels was when Clarke finally spoke up. “Could you please tell me where we are going?”

 

“The Commander requested you,” came the growl of a reply.

 

Clarke gulped, nodding more to herself than anyone else. The elevator stopped at the highest level and Gustus shoved Clarke in front of him, still holding her arm as he pushed her down the hallway, far plusher than that of the lower levels. She could have admired it if she weren’t too busy taming the hammering in her chest, the twitch of her hands she hoped Gustus didn’t notice.

 

It could have been seconds, hours or perhaps a lifetime before they finally arrived outside her door, defined by the Commander’s Emblem in the form of a metallic medallion pressed above the peephole.

 

Clarke managed to redirect her thoughts away from being alone with Lexa for long enough to wonder why Gustus was just standing there. Was he trying to remember a knock code? Thinking of something to say in Morse?

 

Both of those options were apparently incorrect, as no sooner had Clarke thought them, she was spun around and a hand clasped around her throat, forcing her to stare up into the daggers Gustus was glaring down at her.

 

“If you do anything to harm her I will personally escort you straight to hell.”

 

Clarke nodded vigorously, despite the many contradictions whizzing around her head.

 

_As if I could ever harm her._

 

She only wanted it to be over. She wanted to be in that room, she was so fatally curious, so excited- so short of breath, she needed Gustus to let go.

 

He did.

 

He knocked on the door three times before storming down the hallway, making the walls seem narrow as his bulky frame marched through them. Clarke didn’t watch him leave for long; she was staring at the door now, already envisioning what lay beyond it.

 

Would her dream prove to be realistic? Was the scenery how she’d imagined it, would the scene itself come to life before her very eyes? Or was the door about to be opened only for a knife to shank through the air and end her life?

 

She didn’t have time to fret about that; the door creaked open to reveal The Commander, still in her work uniform of high prestige jacket and suit to match. The two regarded one another’s mutual change of attire before Lexa opened the door fully and stood aside, gesturing for Clarke to enter.

 

When she didn’t, her feet rooted to the ground, Lexa frowned. “Come in.”

 

Clarke worried her lower lip, eyes flicking to observe everything but the woman in front of her. “Why?” she blurted, half expecting Gustus to come charging back down the hallway to reprimand her for asking such a hideous question.

 

“Because I asked you to.” Lexa asserted. Her face softened after she said it, noticing Clarke’s flinch, and she shook her head and reached for the blonde’s hand. She held it in both of her own, stroking a thumb over the lead smears on her inner knuckles from her pencil, over the permanent ink on her wrist.

 

“It’s okay, Clarke. I’m not… I’m not going to hurt you.”

 

“I don’t understand.”

 

Lexa sighed and dropped Clarke’s hand. “I don’t want to go back to that Hospital. It makes me feel weak, I want to be treated here. If you don’t want to come in, I’ll find someone else. But if you trust me…”

 

She paused to retreat back into the room, her gaze never leaving that of the shorter, somewhat scared woman in front of her. “Then follow.”

 

Her confidence was all the confirmation Clarke needed. Lexa knew what her answer was before she could even arrive at the conclusion herself. But she did. And when she did, she left her anxiety out in the hallway where it belonged, stepping into the room mirroring The Commander’s confidence and holding her chin just as high.


	11. Chapter 11

For the chamber of the most prestigious member of the military; Lexa’s room was not impressive. Her bed in the corner of the gray room was indeed a small double, with two thin pillows at the top of the few blankets neatly layered over it, below a wall-mounted lamp and switch.

 

Right next to it was a dresser, in front of a rectangular mirror secured on the otherwise blank wall. It was just as organized as the bed; various pots and bottles lined up like soldiers against the wall, a stack of magazines on the corner closest to her bed, a comb, an ashtray, a butterfly knife, a pair of knuckle dusters, a Glock.

 

The typical young woman’s room.

 

Beyond that, Lexa’s lair was relatively empty, save for the chest of what Clarke could only assume to be weapons sitting menacingly in front of the bed, and the door on the left wall that lead into either a bathroom or another weapon storage space. It was eerily similar to her dream, but lacking in candles, and serenity.

 

This room was more of an armory one could sleep in as opposed to a palace. Shadows brooded in the corners, the weak overhead fluorescent tube offering just enough glow to keep them at bay. When Clarke closed the door and shut out the light of the hallway outside, they suddenly seemed to lurch forward, eager to envelop the outsider into their constricting darkness.

 

No light entered through the tiny box of a window on the wall next to Lexa’s bed, only the void of the night and the occasional flash of lighting from the summer storm that had finally struck after brewing all day. The rain had only been a pitter-patter before, but it now alternated between bullet-like pelts against the glass and watery drips like a leaky faucet. 

 

Before Clarke could comment, Lexa flicked the switch above her bed and the lamp clicked into life, banishing the shadows once more into their keeps. The light was warmer, more natural than the one on the roof, and Clarke felt grateful for the one luxury Lexa seemed to have in the room. It wasn’t a candle, but it calmed her nonetheless. 

 

“Thank you for coming.” Lexa broke the silence, her hands seeming out of place when they weren’t clasped behind her back. They were instead gripping an object in front of her that Clarke hadn’t noticed when she’d first arrived; an expensive, black and gold cane, pressed into the ground as a replacement leg.

 

“I told you crutches,” Clarke answered, nodding to the support. “You shouldn’t be putting any weight on your leg.”

 

“It is fine,” Lexa stated matter-of-factly. 

 

Perhaps Nightblood came with Nightbones and more accelerated healing. Perhaps not. Either way, Clarke couldn’t ignore such an irritating sight, one that could potentially rip that promotion opportunity away if left to intensify. “Sit down. Please.” She sighed, pointing to the bed as she moved to help her walk.

 

Even if Lexa was capable of walking on her own now, she didn’t complain when Clarke pressed a hand to her lower back to guide her to the bed. When she was seated, hands folded in her lap, Clarke knelt before her and set her cane aside, patting Lexa’s broken leg in search of irregularities. 

 

Their positioning excited her but only to a degree; she was determined to behave herself, she had a job to do. Clarke pretended to be very interested in how shiny Lexa’s work shoes were, how silky the fabric of her suit pants was. “Did it hurt when you walked around today?” 

 

“The hole hurts more,” Lexa answered, her voice uncharacteristically quivering. Clarke looked up, meeting the curious stare of an unmistakable Lexa. The Commander had vanished the very moment Clarke had touched her.

 

Her hair may have been pulled back in those harsh braids, and her shoulders may have been exaggerated with those luxurious gold paddings and tassels falling from them, but the soulful green ponds Clarke was losing herself in the gaze of belonged only to Lexa. 

 

A Lexa who just so happened to still be wearing The Commander’s uniform, the hole in her abdomen probably aching beneath it. “I can check it, I just don’t have any equipment-“

 

“In there.” Lexa interrupted quickly, and Clarke blinked twice in surprise, following her pointed finger over to the chest at the foot of the bed. “There’s a first-aid kit. It will do.”

 

Clarke nodded and rose up to her full height, avoiding looking down at Lexa out of both respect and a fear she’d be unable to stop once she did. She crouched in front of the chest once arriving there, hovering a finger over the security pin-pad.

 

“01000011.” Lexa supplied slowly, allowing a break between each digit so Clarke had time to punch it in correctly. After the final beep of the last number, instead of hearing the click of the chest opening, there came only silence, layered with the howls of the intensifying storm outside.

 

Clarke waited for Lexa to turn to look at her in confusion before making her statement. “C.”

 

Lexa’s eyes widened, but she formulated a response immediately. “We required you learn Morse Code. Where did you learn Binary?”

 

"My friend Wells is a Cryptography expert. He’s in Communications.” Clarke answered, satisfied she’d awed Lexa enough to continue with her task. Although his name tasted sour in her mouth she forced herself to keep talking, hoisting the chest lid upwards to reveal its contents. “We got bored a lot in prison so he taught me a little.”

 

“You are incredibly intelligent, Clarke.” Said Lexa. The blonde bit back a grin and focused on the chest, pushing aside the various firearms until she located the red box, marked with a medical cross on the front. 

 

She closed the chest, returning to her original position in front of The Commander. “It’s trivial,” she muttered, reaching out to lift Lexa’s gown only to halt at the sight of the fastened jacket. “Oh.”

 

Lexa looked down at her uniform as if only noticing it for the first time now. She hurried to pick the buttons open, shrugging the jacket off her shoulders to leave her in a white dress shirt and black necktie.

 

The necktie, she loosened just enough so it fell over her shoulders, held behind her neck. Slightly more tentatively, Lexa undid the buttons of her shirt, looking away from the jaw-dropped Clarke who had given up on subtlety, staring unapologetically at each inch of skin that was revealed as the shirt parted.

 

Only when the shirt had been completely undone to hang loosely on her did Lexa finally brace her hands back on the mattress, tilting her regal head at her nurse. The Griffin nurse, eyes rolling over Lexa’s black sports bra and the chipped dog-tags that dangled in front of it, down her tan belly, barely acknowledging the blood-stained cloth she needed to address.

 

Lexa cleared her throat. Clarke practically tore her way into the first aid, yanking out a roll of bandages, a cloth, and a tiny water bottle. She placed the items between her knees and slowly reached out to touch the solid wall of tough flesh that was Lexa’s abdomen. The defined curve of her hips and the contrasting build of her torso was something Clarke hadn’t noticed in the hospital.

 

Now, in the sensual glow of the bedroom, the shuffling of staff along the hallway and the beeping of equipment replaced with only hushed breathing, Lexa had become a goddess. 

 

“It is not ‘trivial’, by the way.” Lexa murmured, somewhat of a distraction from the pain Clarke knew she likely felt when the bandages were removed and the now damp cloth pressed to it. “It’s quite outstanding.”

 

“I only know how the letters in mine and Wells’ names. ‘C’ just happens to be among them.” Clarke replied as she wiped the crusty flakes of black off Lexa’s skin. Less blood had spilled than usual; it was well on its way to closing. 

 

“Regardless, I’m impressed.”

 

“C. Why C?” 

 

When she didn’t receive a response, Clarke risked a glance up at Lexa, impulse yanking her head back down upon seeing her solemn expression, gaze cast into the corner of the room and lips pressed together in a grimace. “I don’t want to talk about h- it.”

 

The blonde nodded, patting the skin dry and pressing a clean bandage over the top for the night. It was almost ready to heal exposed, but Clarke couldn’t risk Lexa bleeding into her sheets while she slept. Clarke knew well enough how difficult crimson stains were to remove from bedding. Lord knows how hard tainted black would prove.

 

After spending more seconds than necessary checking the bandage was secure, Clarke rose to her feet, stepping half a foot back so that The Commander didn’t need to look so far up at her. “Well, you should be good for the night. Have you eaten?” she asked, willing herself not to stare at Lexa’s exposed form despite how well she knew it by now.

 

Her gaze fell quickly upon the Glock on Lexa’s dresser, a classy little thing, slide coated with gold. When the flash of a lightning fork from outside strobed into the room through the small window, the metallic slide seemed to glimmer enticingly, daring Clarke closer.

 

“Yes, thank you. I’m okay.” Lexa answered, following Clarke’s sights. “What are you looking at?” 

 

“The gun.” said Clarke, returning her sights to Lexa, their eyes meeting in that familiar static way. 

 

“Well, go get it then.”

 

“What?”

 

Lexa nodded in the dressers direction. “You like it. Go get it.”

 

Clarke wasn’t going to risk disobeying. She padded over to the dresser, pretending not to notice the stark-naked woman on the cover of one of the magazines atop it, which she now recognized as issues of Playboy. Very classy, indeed.

 

The gun was heavier than she’d expected, from the gold plating or the potentially loaded clip, Clarke didn’t know and couldn’t be bothered to care. She carried it over to Lexa in two hands like it was a fragile animal, eyes tracing the elegant detailing on the grip and slide; this thing must have cost a fortune.

 

“Should I be worried about you shooting me?” Lexa asked, her hands pressed into the mattress behind her so she could lean back, extremely relaxed for a woman alone in a room with an armed rebel.

 

Clarke found the trust gratifying but a twinge of guilt pricked at her insides; Jasper’s suggestion of an assignation replaying in her head yet again. Lexa didn’t see her as the threat everyone else did.

 

“No.” Clarke sighed, testing how the gun handled in both of her hands. She aimed it at the door, at the walls, but never at The Commander. “This gun is amazing, though,” she added and looked to catch Lexa nodding while she yawned, her head falling back on her shoulders in a stretch.

 

“Clip small but it shoots just fine,” Lexa muttered. While she rubbed her eyes, Clarke returned to playing with the weapon, dropping the magazine out to examine it. She was a medic, not a marksman, but she knew her guns. One in her profession had to.

 

When she looked back at Lexa, she had taken off her shirt completely and placed her removed shoes nearly at the foot of the bed. Clarke watched in absolute wonder as she struggled to remove her pants, proving to be quite the challenge with only one functioning leg.

 

“Um, should I go..?”

 

As if on cue, a deep rumble rolled across the sky above them, making both women glance to the ceiling as if a bolt of lightning might strike through at any moment. 

 

“You may if you wish, but the lower rank’s barracks tend to get cold when it rains. You’re welcome to stay here.”

 

_She wants me to stay again._

 

Acting oblivious, Clarke looked away as Lexa finally managed to pull her pants off, revealing long, loose boxers underneath. “Where would I sleep?”

 

To Clarke’s utter adoration, Lexa’s face lit up in a blush and she averted her gaze downwards. “The bed is comfortable… I think we could both fit.”

 

To fit with the shift in attitude, Clarke returned the gun to its place on the dresser, pulling her dog-tags over her head and leaving them next to it. Quietly, she removed the crumpled up Rebellion propaganda from her pocket and stuffed it inside one of her boots after kicking them off, glad Lexa was too distracted to notice the sneaky action.

 

“Hey, Commander,” Clarke asked with a smirk as she walked back to stand in front of Lexa, face still hot. “Are you scared of the storm?”

 

In an instant, Lexa had snatched her cane up and leaped to her feet, her added inches on Clarke making her new found confidence even more intimidating. The blonde swallowed and stepped back, but didn’t lose her smile. 

 

“Clarke, I have survived nights alone in a jungle with nothing but a switchblade and my wits. I’m not afraid of the storm.”

 

Blue eyes narrowed, searching into Lexa’s forests for any of that emotion that would show itself every now and then. “Then what are you afraid of?”

 

And just like that, the mood flipped once more, and Lexa turned away from the blonde towards the bed. “That’s none of your concern,” she stated, managing with noticeable difficulty to maneuver herself under the blankets, her back to Clarke as she snuggled into the bed.

 

The inky, circular ghosts of Lexa’s seven slain comrades glared at Clarke from Lexa’s back, as if scolding her from asking such a question. She ignored them, sliding into the bed herself and flicking the lamp switch off, hoping the dark wasn’t what made Lexa stir in her sleep.

 

“It is considering I have to share a bed with you, and your nightmares keep me up.”

 

“If you have the book with you, read it to me. It’ll help.”

 

Clarke winced. “I left it under my bed…”

 

No response. Clarke could only just make out Lexa’s resting form in the dark, the black tattoos on her back like bottomless holes in her skin. She opened her mouth to explain herself when finally, cutting through the suffocating darkness like a divine beacon, she spoke again.

 

“Hold my hand again. If I’m suffering.”

 

So, she suffered in her sleep. Her demons were nocturnal, just as Clarke’s once were, before her lack of emotion for them to feed on had starved them to death. Suddenly, the bed seemed colder; Clarke wanted to hold Lexa, for both their comforts. How many tears had she shed in here, how many nights did she thrash and shake, cold sweat beaded on her body when she woke up?

 

At least in Corrections Clarke had Wells to cry into the shoulder of. Lexa was so obviously, devastatingly alone. Even now, there might as well have been a mile instead of a few inches between them, the distance between their bodies stretching like a void.

“How did you know I held your hand, back then..?"

 

Closing the gap between them a fraction, Lexa laughed to herself. It could have been sad or scary even, if it wasn't laced with undeniable amusement. “The same way I know you had a wet dream about me last night.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spicy ;)


	12. Chapter 12

_She knows. She knows._

 

Was this the part where she finally met her end? Lusting after a figure as high in ranking as she was probably punishable by death in some way. Was this the part where she was taken advantage of? Would she care if it was?

 

A healthy blush dusted Clarke’s cheeks, undetectable in the darkness. Lexa hadn’t moved yet. The rain continued to pelt against the roof, rolls of thunder booming across the sky like distant bombs. Denial? No, disrespectful. Proud ownership? Embarrassing.

 

“How did you know...” was all the blonde could manage.

 

“When a woman five feet away from you is moaning your name in your sleep, it’s a little hard to ignore.” 

 

Clarke winced. Her recollection of the dream itself was vivid in her mind, but however she may have acted outside of it was a different story. “Your name..?”

 

“Part of me thought it may have been intentional. Like you were letting me know.” Lexa began, turning over to face Clarke. The blond could only just see a warm smile on her features, far more welcoming than what she’d expected. “I didn’t know you liked women.”

 

Praying to god Lexa couldn’t see the steadily intensifying blush on her face in the dark, Clarke answered. “I didn’t know you did either.” 

 

As she spoke, Clarke jabbed her thumb behind her at the stack of Playboy’s on Lexa’s dresser. It was at this point Clarke had expected the bashful Commander to blush, but she was as stoic in her orientation as she was on the battlefield. “Seems like we can both appreciate the female form.”

 

Oh, Clarke could do far more. Especially if the form in question was the one she’d imagined fucking her senseless last night. 

 

“That’s why you let me see you naked that time,” said Clarke, her voice hitching towards the end to indicate uncertainty.

 

“I let you see me because I didn’t want things to be tense between us. It would appear I only made you uncomfortable, forgive me.”

 

“No, no,” Clarke assured, a hand jerking outward to touch Lexa but falling short just out of reach of her inviting body. “I’m not uncomfortable, really.”

 

“You were this morning.”

 

For someone as observant as she, it was a miracle Lexa hadn’t noticed the lewd artwork Clarke had produced, left out in the open for a good few minutes that morning. Apparently, she’d been too focused watching Clarke struggle through a desperate arousal, knowing full well she was responsible. “I… I took care of it.”

 

Lexa shuffled an inch closer, and Clarke could see the curve of her long neck, close enough to kiss if she reached. “I could have helped you.”

 

A flash of lighting illuminated for a split-second Clarke’s wide-eyed expression, staring in disbelief at the completely focused Commander. When darkness fell upon the room again Clarke turned onto her back, looking up at the blank ceiling for an answer. 

 

Was an answer even necessary? Clarke couldn’t decide if the Commander was being overly blunt or too mysterious. Perhaps it was her ego that made Clarke think she made Lexa nervous; she was clearly just as confident in her flirtation as she was in her job. 

 

Or perhaps all she’d needed was the confirmation Clarke wanted her.

 

“Do you know what it reads in your file, Clarke? Your behavior?” Lexa asked.

 

“Probably lots of shit.”

 

“Well, yes, but one thing stood out,” she continued. Without turning her head, Clarke could only just make out Lexa raising her hands out from under the covers to air-quote her next statement. “’Uses other inmates as sexual outlets.’”

 

Clarke shook her head slowly. “They make it sound like I used them.”

 

“Them?”

 

“There were only two, that’s not the point.” she growled, slightly more aggressively than she’d intended.

 

Seemingly noticing her frustration, The Commander slithered a hand over to Clarke, placing it gently on an arm beneath the covers. “Did you use them?”

 

Chilled like the metal of her gun, Lexa’s hand didn’t radiate the warmth it had the first time she’d felt it. “I don’t know. Maybe. Is it still using if it's mutual?”

 

“No. That’s called comfort.” 

 

Clarke tensed beneath Lexa’s hand, which had begun stroking her arm in a corresponding way to her words. 

 

“Well then, we comforted each other.” She sighed.

 

“What will you do without them?” Lexa purred in a voice entirely different than anything she’d ever heard. It was not the deep assertiveness of The Commander, or the innocence of a relaxed Lexa, but a beautiful hybrid; it sounded just as silk felt, a verbal softness Clarke wanted to be wrapped in with her.

 

She had caught on. A steady heat was gathering at her core, each brush of Lexa’s hand on her arm fanning the flame. The blaze burnt her own voice, and when she spoke it was brittle but confident, smoke might as well have blown from her mouth when she spoke. “You tell me.” 

 

Suddenly, Lexa’s hand froze. Clarke turned to look at her, searching for an emotion in that stone face of hers, hardened with a shell of darkness. She saw her move close enough that their bodies were only inches apart, warm breath heating Clarke’s face even more than the burning inside her.

 

And when Lexa’s hand left her arm and her fingers ghosted across the exposed skin of Clarke’s belly where her shirt had lifted, the heat between her legs was apparent enough to make her squirm in hot discomfort. 

 

Even as she shifted, Lexa’s hand remained on her abdomen, one of her nails scratching curiously at the waistband of Clarke’s pants. “I know you want me. I can ease your mind.”

 

“I’m fine.” Clarke lied. Even through the fog Lexa had clouded in Clarke’s mind, Well’s betrayal was sharp, Pike’s campaign was a rift in her skull she was desperate to fill in. The Rebellion was a pulsating tumor on her life she’d been trying for over a year to remove, but without tedious, operational tasks to mindlessly complete, without a body to grind her frustrations into in luxurious privacy;

 

Clarke Griffin was still hurting. 

 

The pain wasn’t sedated and she couldn’t trick herself into thinking otherwise. That was why when Lexa pulled her hand away Clarke caught it in claws as lighting fast as the electricity of the storm outside, gripping her wrist in place on her body. “No,” she whimpered, and just the mere broken tone itself seemed to be enough for Lexa.

 

Sparing Clarke the energy of speaking, Lexa wordlessly slipped her hand under her border, pressing an experimental finger into a particularly wet spot of Clarke’s underwear. The cloth itself magnified the pressure like bare skin on dry carpet, making the blonde shudder in agony when the friction rubbed over her swollen pearl, bulging out from its hood.

 

“May I continue, Clarke?” 

 

Just her voice alone formed new heat at the section Lexa was testing her access to. The way her name rolled off her tongue made Clarke want to hear it closer; in her ear, riding on hot breath so inhumanely close. Not like this. Not with a gap between them full of cold air and an unspoken rule of what this was.

 

Not that it was going to change Clarke’s mind. She nodded, her hand gripping the sheets in preparation. When it came, a hand brushing through tight blonde curls, a slim finger dragging between her slick folds, Clarke groaned so helplessly it was a wonder she didn’t fall to pieces right then and there.

 

For a moment or two, Lexa held her finger still, Clarke’s fluids spilling over it in a way so carnal it made the blonde flush and turn her head away in pure embarrassment. But it was apparently only another trial, as soon Lexa pulled away to let Clarke cool down, only to press straight against her aching clit and sear the thing so harshly a scream nearly ripped through the silence.

 

Instead, a hushed gasp replaced the noise and, in a rather sadistic way, Clarke saw Lexa lick her lips when she looked up at her again. She was elevated on her other arm, popped up on her elbow, a subtle reminder of her superiority perhaps. Clarke was too far gone to care. All she needed was this.

 

Lexa removed her force, tracing a delicate circle around Clarke’s bud to allow her time to recover, before rubbing against it again pushing surface heat up to her stomach and back down again when she stopped. The flame formed a hot ring around her entrance, lubricated and hungry for sustenance. She jerked her hips up when Lexa wasn’t paying enough attention to her vital spots, watching for any hint of expression in the shadows cast on her face.

 

But she was a cruel mistress. Clarke didn’t have to be her nurse to know Lexa was aware of her power, her prowess, the grip she had that Clarke couldn’t escape from, even if she wanted to. Lexa ignored Clarke’s inner spot entirely, prodding mercilessly at the throbbing clit as Clarke ground upwards into her touch, grunting in frustration.

 

No candles. No energy. But all the pleasure; tangible, otherworldly and unlike anything Finn or Niylah could deliver. The purpose was all the same though. She was a fix, a buzz. No matter how badly Clarke wanted things to be different.

 

When she came Lexa’s name wasn’t present on her lips, only an empty moan and a temporary combustion as the blaze burned across her entire body, igniting her skin and pulling it taut as she tensed beneath Lexa. It left her body in the essence that spilled over Lexa’s hand, underneath her and, she realized, possibly into The Commander’s bedsheets. 

 

The blaze steadily died, leaving Clarke in a state of warm afterglow; but colder, darker, fatigued panting drowned out by the sound of angry rains overhead. Lexa left, her pants empty and cold without her, leaving only a sore, wet crease between quivering thighs.

 

“Was that satisfactory, Clarke?” Lexa asked, all the seduction seemingly drained from her voice with her partner’s orgasm. She wiped her fingers on the blanket, seemingly disgusted with herself.

 

_She hated it. She hates you._

 

“Yes. It was... amazing.”

 

Not a lie, but not far off. It wasn’t enough. 

 

“I hope that quelled your desire for tonight. I thought you might get a little flustered, being alone with me,” said Lexa, flopping back down onto the pillows with a huff.

 

It was then that Clarke frowned, lines striking through her forehead in irritation. “So, what, you just made me cum so you wouldn’t have to listen to me moan in my sleep?”

 

“Stop that,” Lexa ordered, freezing Clarke’s blood to crimson ice in her veins. “Do not assume so lowly of me. I wanted that as you did.”

 

A warm relief thawed Clarke’s chill, a familiar, wholesome feeling entirely separate to the primal need just satisfied. This wasn’t the time or place for that feeling, however. The laughs they’d shared, the talks; they had no place here. This chamber was for business, Clarke realized. Not love-making. 

 

And she was not Lexa’s lover. But she was fine, regardless. Just fine. 

 

It was a fine arrangement they made; Lexa did not return to the hospital the next day, but Clarke did. They each did their jobs, indifferent to one another throughout the day until the time came to suppress their demons before they seized the minds they sought to terrorize. 

 

Night after night, Clarke found herself falling back into Lexa’s bed, neither of them uttering a word as they blocked the world out in each other. Not once did Lexa allow Clarke to touch her despite her requests to do so, but the blonde ignored this. The arrangement would remain fine. Complications could jeopardize the escape and allow the nightmares re-entry. She could live with allowing Lexa access to her body as she pleased, supplying her with orgasms while her fingers twitched with a desire to let her do the same. 

 

It became as much a routine as was the job roster. Clarke arrived, checked the rapidly healing injuries sometimes even while she stripped down; if she was that desperate. Lexa allowed her a few moments of bliss before they fell asleep on opposite sides of the bed, their lips never touched, hands never stroked. Only pulled, only rubbed; Lexa would only use her mouth to give instructions.

 

“Don’t.” 

 

For when Clarke reached up to brush her lips against her neck.

 

“Be quiet.”

 

For the nights when Clarke couldn’t wait and they began even while the rest of the Barracks were still awake.

 

The Lexa that Clarke thought she knew was always absent when the time came. She was off somewhere else; somewhere Clarke wanted to be. She wanted the Lexa who told jokes, spoke in Morse and blushed like a girl still free of war.

 

The Commander she had was only another outlet, just as she was to her. She was the brute of Clarke’s dreams, only far less energetic than she’d imagined; a shell of the true Lexa, beautiful but only a projection. The sex was both scorching and then freezing. The room both a fiery pit and a dark hole. 

 

But Clarke still couldn’t stop herself from falling in love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I lowkey fucken hate this but I'm gonna make it work trust me
> 
> Yeah so the quality isn't too great and it's been a longer wait than usual because I have mock exams just around the corner, yikes. Might take a smol break until those blow over, only about a week or so, this thing is far from over
> 
> As always, your comments and kudos really do make me smile so consider dropping one of those before you go, thank you! <3


	13. Chapter 13

Besides the mind-blowing orgasms, there was another perk to being The Commander’s bed mate: Leave.

 

It was a luxury few, both Sky People and Grounder, could afford. Only those of high rank and duties that could be appropriately delegated could accept it. Even then, there was a limit to how much was appropriate, and at what times it could be taken. War is very demanding.

 

Clarke had asked for it that morning; naked, watching from the disastrous bed with half lidded eyes as The Commander struggled to dress- she vigorously refused any offers for assistance. “I just want to go visit someone,” she began, “she’s not Arkadian and she’s not a rebel.”

 

“Then why do you want to see her, if not to plot my empire’s demise?” Lexa answered, tugging her jacket over her shoulders, adjusting a few wonky medals on the chest. The bullet wound had healed nicely over the week, but there was still an opportunity for re-opening and caution was needed. Her leg was still a dead weight Lexa required her cane to replaced.

 

“I just want to talk to her. She was a good friend in Corrections.” Clarke tried. Lexa threw her a quizzical look. “Okay, she was more than a friend. I need her guidance, this thing we’ve got, it’s weird.”

 

“You don’t think it’s weird when you’re moaning out underneath me.”

 

“That’s not the point.” Clarke snapped. “We used to get along, now you just use me and you never let me touch you and it’s fucking weird, okay?”

 

Below them, the sounds of the lower levels preparing for the day vibrated through the floor and partially eased the thick tension. Clarke shook her head and scooped her work uniform up off the floor, dressing herself in the bed. 

 

Still examining her reflection in the mirror, Lexa sighed. “Plenty of girls would be over the moon to be my personal pillow princess. I don’t see what your problem is.”

 

“I miss you.”

 

Clarke’s hope that her words could invite Lexa’s emotional side out of the dark was yanked away as The Commander kept her gaze straight and straightened her uniform, pulling a lit cigarette to her lips and securing her pistol on her hip. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

 

Ignoring Clarke’s hurt expression, she crossed the room to the door and muttered something about locking up after she’d left. And then Clarke was alone in Lexa’s bed again, cold, her nether region aching from last night’s rough affairs that the sinful odour of still soaked the room in. 

 

***

 

For all her tough talk, at least she’d found it in her heart to leave Clarke a note, which Bellamy presented to her upon entry to the food hall. “she told me to take you wherever you wanted to go, but that she’ll flay me alive if I don’t bring you back safely.”

 

Once, such protective behaviour would have made Clarke’s heart flutter. It still did, but it was as pathetic as the slow beat of a dying butterfly’s wings. She instead focused on the note itself, her signature and foreign password scribed in red.

 

“I’m surprised she didn’t assign me a Grounder.” Clarke stated, flopping down with her breakfast tray next to Finn, an armed Bellamy standing guard next to the table. She acknowledged Lexa’s presence at the opposite end of the room with only a brief glance; it was part of the routine. There was to be absolutely no interaction outside of the bedroom.

 

“So am I. Guess she trusts me. And you, while we’re at it.” Bellamy answered. “Maybe she really does like us after all.”

 

As he spoke, Clarke’s gaze moved from him to the very woman in question, watching over the recruits as they ate like a farmer with her stock. She glided between tables, cigarette glowing at her mouth, making both guard and recruit alike flinch as she brushed past them.

 

On Clarke’s other side, Finn snorted. “Yeah she likes us so much that’s why she assigned me to a midnight mission tonight where I’ll probably die.”

 

“You’re finally going in huh?” Clarke asked, eyebrows raised in surprise. Finn had miraculously avoided being assigned a troop to Tondc despite being a member of the notorious hundred, and fully qualified for combat. Apparently, his luck had run out.

 

“Yup. We leave at 2300 hours to secure the final checkpoint.” Finn’s demeanour as he spoke was visibly less obnoxious than usual; but not in a way that suited him. Clarke had found his likely Raven-induced changes over the week pleasant; he had ceased his awful teasing and flirting, managed to engage in more than a few intelligent conversations and had even managed to make Clarke laugh.

 

Perhaps he was being cared for in the same way; they both had partners to lift their spirits, new attitudes to wear that had abandoned their previous angst and negativity. 

 

Now, however, Finn had neither his initial agitating personality or his upbeat one; he held an extinct frown on his handsome face and large, sad eyes cast downward at his breakfast. It was unsettling, to say the least.

 

“I’m sure you’ll be fine,” Clarke tried, rubbing a hand over one of his tensed arms. Next to them, Bellamy shifted awkwardly as another guard passed him, not so subtle when knocking into his shoulder.

 

“I better go. Come find me after breakfast and we’ll get outta here.” he murmured.

 

“Sure.” Clarke answered, watching the soldier leave. As she did so, her eyes fell upon Lexa again; scowling in her direction, white knuckles gripping her cane in front of her.

 

To the untrained eye, this sight was simply The Commander’s natural stance. She was assertive by default, the alpha female. It was her job to intimidate you.

 

But she was utterly failing at this task in Clarke’s eyes. Right now, as she tilted her head to one side, eyes narrowed like blades and bristled all over, she was undeniably irritated. 

 

_Unbelievable._

 

“Can’t you get yourself off the roster if you’re so worried?” Clarke asked her friend quickly, turning back to him. They both already knew the answer; she only hoped he found comfort in her words.

 

“Yeah right,” Finn snorted, a noise devoid of humour. He moved slowly to face the blonde, his own hand cupped over the smaller one still on his arm. “we don’t have that kind of power. You kn-“

 

Clarke watched his sentence catch in his throat just as his eyes darted upwards in her direction. Both hands dropped to his sides, while a hand that didn’t belong to him dropped onto Clarke’s shoulder; the curve between thumb and index finger pressed against her neck.

 

“Finn Collins,” her voice stated from right behind Clarke. “you’ve been assigned to the night ops, correct?”

 

As she spoke his name, Clarke tensed at the feel of her grip tightening a minuscule amount on her neck, as if merely the sound of it angered her.

 

“Yes Commander,” Finn stammered after blinking away his daze. Clarke remembered a time where she’d been just as awestruck. Unfortunately, Clarke had developed a tolerance to The Commander’s jaw-dropping, hair raising effects.

 

Lexa struck up a conversation with the cadet, informing him of her expectations and his obligations. Clarke zoned out to the meaningless words; she was listening to Lexa’s true conversation in the form of those familiar dashes and dots poked into her skin.

 

_M-Y--R-O-O-M._

 

Perhaps coincidentally, perhaps not, the nail of Lexa’s thumb cut into the back of Clarke’s neck when she poked a dot unit. Her assertiveness had been assigned to her Morse chat; Clarke could see Finn’s confused frown at Lexa’s monotone, verbal instructions.

 

_5._

 

Five minutes. Of course, a lowly cadet couldn’t be seen running off with The Commander to her room in the middle of breakfast; how blasphemous! Silly Sky Person.

 

“I trust you’ll serve my army well, Collins,” Lexa stated with a nod after listening to Finn’s obligatory boast regarding his marksman skills. No amount of war-induced angst could erode that humongous ego. 

 

And with that, Lexa drifted away, dragging her fingertips over Clarke’s shoulder in what was either reluctance to let go, or just a reminder of her task. She was probably on her way up there now, leaving Clarke to fret over exactly what sexual, possessive need was so important it had to interrupt meal.

 

***

 

Clarke had only knocked once before the door swung open and a hand on her coat collar yanked her inside, slamming the door behind her. 

 

Lexa backed Clarke against it, her cane clattering to the floor when she pressed her hands against the door so Clarke’s head was trapped between them. She shrunk back, out of instinct only, confident gaze matching an equally unwavering glare from the woman above her, abusing her height advantage.

 

They stayed there like that for a while; locked in a battle of stares, Lexa’s fierce green eyes the only distraction to keep Clarke from glancing to her full lips, only inches away now. They were clenched shut, covering probably gritted teeth, holding back an anger Clarke could feel radiating off Lexa like a bull ready to charge.

 

“What do you want?” Clarke blurted out suddenly, cracking under the tension. When she’d finished talking she felt her lip quivering, her body sub-consciously moving forward when Lexa’s gaze fell upon it.

 

In that moment, Clarke couldn’t remember a single time they’d been this close. Lexa might have explored her more intimate areas an embarrassing amount of times for only a week, and Clarke might have Lexa’s naked form etched into her memory, but the feel of Lexa’s lips on hers was still foreign.

 

They were right there, fresh and only a hairline away; but there might as well have been light years.

 

“That man,” Lexa grunted. “I know what he is to you. Your file talks a lot about him.”

 

Clarke scowled. “It’s not like that anymore.”

 

“You don’t know if he thinks that.”

 

“He has a girlfriend. Maybe.”

 

Without warning, Lexa dipped her head to breathe in Clarke’s neck, the blonde’s eyes widening at the warm sensation billowing over her skin. “Men are greedy,” Lexa whispered, her words melting into Clarke. “Do not assume he will be true to her.”

 

Clarke took a moment to choke her next few words out, struggling to speak through the lump in her throat. “I can make my own choices.” she murmured, trying and failing to sound in control.

 

“I know. But you are a delicacy, you love them both. Gender isn't a concern,” Lexa growled. Clarke bit her lip, wondering not only why, but how much of that file Lexa had studied. She was pulling information from it Clarke didn't even consider necessary to note; not that she wasn’t completely entitled to it. “You don’t know he won’t try to take advantage of that. Why have one when you can have two?”

 

Clarke gasped when a wet warmth flicked out to lick along her neck, her pulse beating like a cornered animal into it. She steeled herself, shoving the fantasies of it venturing to other places elsewhere. “What do you care? We’re not-“

 

“You’re mine.” Lexa snarled, too aggressively. The Commander was assertive. She didn’t lose control like this. But the satisfaction of hearing her shield break was only a mere taste of the Lexa she’d been missing.

 

The rest of her latched her teeth into Clarke’s neck, ignoring the desperate moan that rang out from her prey. Her bite didn’t loosen, but she sucked at the flesh within it, lapping her tongue over the tight skin in a soothing pattern. 

 

Clarke tilted her head, Lexa finishing her first mark with a growl before biting into another patch of flesh and wracking Clarke’s body with another set of shudders. Moments before she’d been close enough to kiss. 

 

Now, those lips she craved so badly had proven to be just as harsh as she was; parting only to reveal the fangs of the soulless demon she’d fallen in love with.

 

But this wasn’t The Commander. She wouldn’t dare use her lips, wouldn’t risk leaving evidence on her toy for all to see and jump to conclusions. No, the rational Commander was not the woman sucking on Clarke’s pulse like a comfort measure.

 

It wasn’t her when she finally pulled away either, a string of saliva dangling from her lower lip which she took her time wiping away. Clarke felt rather than saw Lexa staring into her as she rubbed a hand over the ache along her neck, a pain she’d never had the pleasure of receiving until now.

 

She’d seen enough of them to know damn well what it was though. “What are you, fifteen? You told me you were classy.”

 

The smirk she added upon the last statement seemed to work, as Lexa relaxed her shoulders and kicked her cane up so she could rest on it again. “I’m sorry. I don’t like to share, is all.”

 

“Finn wouldn’t respect this. If you’re right at least.”

 

“It’s not just him. I want everyone to know you’re… taken.”

 

At the pause, Clarke’s heart leapt in naïve hope, only for it to come crashing back down upon realization. “Right. Just taken.”

 

Lexa frowned, turning away from the blonde. “If you could stand with me as my consort I wouldn’t need to do this. But you can’t. Tell people it was someone else, I don’t care. As long as they know.”

 

“As long as they know I’ve been getting fucked, right?” Clarke seethed, watching Lexa kneel before her chest of firearms and punch in the code. She couldn’t quite muster up the strength to be outwardly angry; being marked was indeed a small victory, even if it was simultaneously as insulting as being tagged like cattle.

 

“Clarke,” Lexa sighed, pulling a pistol out of the chest and closing it with a click, rising back to her full height. “I understand it’s… weird, for you.”

 

While she spoke, Lexa plodded back over to face Clarke, indifferent to her pain. She watched Lexa examine her work on her neck as if checking it was appropriately visible before looking back to her eyes. “It’s difficult. I’m not good with emotions.”

 

“Yeah, no shit,” Clarke muttered, shaking her head. She was readying herself to leave when she felt a chill press into her front, looking down to see the pistol Lexa had been holding now pushed against her.

 

When Clarke opened her hands below it, Lexa dropped the thing into her waiting palms, settling back onto her cane. “In case something happens out there.”

 

It was adorably tiny, a .380, fully loaded by the weight of it in her similarly small hands. “If you don’t trust Bellamy why assign him to me?”

 

“I assigned him to you _because_ I trust him. It’s my own people I don’t trust, with you at least.” 

 

The subtle narrowing of Lexa’s eyes indicated discomfort; perhaps she’d heard rumours amongst her own people. Or worse. Clarke knew first-hand of the horrors some Grounder men committed upon Arkadian women; simply because they could.

 

Bellamy, however, was a fellow Sky Person and a comrade. It would be far more comfortable than being escorted by a stranger who probably wanted you dead. “It is simply a safety measure. You may keep it.”

 

Clarke allowed herself another smirk. “Why didn’t you just say you wanted to protect me?”

 

Finally, Lexa returned the smile, barely there but butterfly-inducing regardless; just as it had always been. “Too cliché.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a lil boring but contains that good plot shit; if you're just here for the clexa though it's not important :P
> 
> Next few chapters will be far more... exciting. Don't worry

Clarke met Bellamy in a Jeep outside the Barracks, where he slumped in the driver’s seat waiting for her. When she opened the door to clamber inside he sat up like an obedient dog, twisting the keys in the ignition and awakening the machine.

 

“So, Arkadia Corrections Facility, right?” He asked even though the GPS was already calculated to that exact location.

 

“Mhm,” Clarke hummed in confirmation, slouching against the door as the Army vehicle rolled out of the parking lot. The pistol was concealed out of Bellamy’s view in her inner coat pocket; a compartment usually reserved for pens, pills, and perhaps paper. Doctor’s equipment. Not murder equipment.

 

They traveled in peaceful silence for a few minutes, watching the other soldiers scurry to their posts around them, higher-ranking officers taking their time on patrols. They were only just approaching the exit terminal, a narrower road than the previous flanked by trees with armed guards both secluded in them, and posted around them, when Bellamy interrupted the serenity with that dreaded question:

 

“So, what’s all that on your neck?”

 

Dramatically, the Jeep slowed to a cruise as it approached the exit booth and the jet-black metal gate, as tall and intimidating as The Commander herself. Clarke pressed a finger to the blotches on her skin, a ghost of Lexa’s tongue still swirling over them. “What, you never seen a hickey before or something?” she said nonchalantly, waving a dismissive hand.

 

She heard Bellamy gulp. “I didn’t know you had a boyfriend.”

 

“You do now,” Clarke answered flatly, hoping she looked cross enough with her gritted teeth and narrowed eyes to signal that this was a conversation she didn’t want. 

 

Thankfully, it seemed to work; Bellamy advanced in silence, satisfied with Clarke’s conveniently provided lie. He’d reduced the work by jumping to his conclusion, however false it was; and Clarke couldn’t complain. As long as he didn’t feel the need to tell anyone else, it was a reasonable enough explanation.

 

The Jeep slowed to a halt next to the exit booth, occupied by a burly Grounder puffing away on a fat cigar. Bellamy rolled down the driver’s seat window, leaning his head out to hear the Guard’s growl. “Names.”

 

“Blake and Griffin,” Bellamy answered. The Grounder raised an eyebrow and pulled a walkie-talkie to his mouth.

 

“Oi, do we have a Blake or a Griffin cleared for exit?”

 

“Sir,” Bellamy interrupted, the Grounder glaring at him like he’d just spat in his face. “We have a note from The Commander. I’m Griffin’s escort.”

 

The Grounder mumbled something unintelligible into his receiver, throwing a paw out expectantly. Clarke handed the note to Bellamy, and he to the guard, who stared at like it was written in a foreign language before huffing and smacking down on something inside the booth.

 

In front of the car, the giant metal gate parted mechanically, revealing what was essentially the forest with a road only just wide enough for a car to travel across paved through it. “If you aren’t back by 1800 hours, I’ll send soldiers to collect you both. In body bags. Is that clear?”

 

“Yes Sir,” Both Arkadians confirmed in unison. When the guard nodded and continued puffing his cigar, Bellamy continued through the gate, into Polis.

 

***

War had not treated the most powerful country on the planet well.

 

The very moment they left the forest the base was secluded in, Bellamy and Clarke were treated to the sight of a war-ravaged metropolitan city; buses and cars were strewn across the uneven streets like litter, skyscrapers broken and discarded on the ground. This would have been an urban paradise once; before the bombs came raining down.

 

For miles, the only color Clarke could see was black. It was like a volcano had erupted ash all over the city, but she knew it was only the aftermath of calculated, inferno-inducing explosions. The corpses were buried somewhere underneath them, names and faces forgotten.

 

“Sucks to think Arkadia could be next, huh?” Bellamy sighed. “They can’t protect us forever.”

 

That was true. While her country, its resources, and its labor were an asset to Polis, the very second it became a burden was the day it was destroyed. The only reason it hadn’t already been was thanks to the threat Polis posed as an ally, and the tiny insignificance of the country itself. Other clans didn’t feel the need to waste firepower on destroying it.

 

“We’ll win this war before the alliance breaks,” Clarke stated. 

 

“And then what? What’re they gonna do with us?”

 

Clarke frowned, her eyes locked on a cavity in the ground where a mine had probably exploded and dug a crater. “I don’t know.”

 

“Sure you do, you and Lexa are buds, right?”

 

“I’m her nurse. And even if we were, that doesn’t mean I suddenly have access to all the Military secrets.”

 

The pocket concealing the pistol nudged against Clarke’s thigh when Bellamy drove over a bump. Perhaps she could learn of them if she really wanted to. 

 

Bellamy made an amused sound. “If you did, the others would be ecstatic. Rebel princess back in action.”

 

“Don’t call me that.”

 

“I’m only quoting them. They want you back, Clarke. The Rebellion needs you.”

 

The blonde turned away from the chaos outside to face her driver, eyes narrowed in suspicious anger. “Do they want me back? Or do you?”

 

Bellamy shrugged. “Hey, I’m not really part of that. But if the Uprising did happen, I wouldn’t exactly be opposed to joining the movement..."

 

Of course, he wouldn’t. That was the attitude of almost every single Arkadian that wasn’t either already in the Rebellion, or pro-Alliance. ‘Grounder-lovers’ as the former referred to the latter as. “Well don’t get your hopes up. I’m only doing my job.”

 

“I don’t know, things are looking pretty hopeful these days. Pike’s a good leader, and that whole Ice Nation thing-“

 

“How many people know about that?” Clarke demanded suddenly, already on edge from hearing the Rebellion Leader’s name. She hadn’t spoken to Wells since throwing him out of the car last week, despite his various attempts to patch things up. Apparently, he wasn’t all that good at Communications after all.

 

If he’d been spouting off about the plan as carelessly as it would seem, she’d have to regain contact. Only to convince him to stop endangering his own and everyone else’s life like the blindly optimistic follower he was.

 

“Relax, barely anyone. Wells only told a handful of us, you included.”

 

“Then you know I think it’s ridiculous. It’s gonna get us all killed.”

 

Bellamy raised an eyebrow at her briefly, before looking back to the road to pull onto the highway that would lead them straight to the prison. It was situated right on the Polis-Arkadia border, conveniently close to the Base and likely swarming with Guards. “I thought we established The Commander doesn’t hate us.”

 

“She doesn’t. But that doesn’t mean she won’t take action if we defy her,” Clarke croaked, her voice inexplicably cracking towards the end of her statement.

 

She caught the surprise in his eyes at this, already dreaming up an explanation. ‘I’m just her nurse.’ ‘I’d scared.’ Both should be true, but neither of them was.

 

“You should tell all this to Wells, he’s the one planning it all,” said Bellamy. Clarke breathed a sigh of relief at his lack of questions for her.

 

“He won’t listen,” Clarke moved on just as quick. “He’s even more into it than I was. He’s so smart but so stupid at times…”

 

“Hey, we’re all a little stupid,” Bellamy offered with a smile. It didn’t achieve the effect he likely meant it to. Clarke forced herself to return him one, weak, before turning to look out of the window again. They’d arrived at a slightly nicer looking part of this district, still barren and war-ravaged, but rural enough that the destruction hasn’t done much to disturb the already bland landscape.

 

She looked through the windshield to see they were approaching the border: a huge, wire gate surrounded by machine gun toting officers on both sides. Bellamy rolled the Jeep forward until there were at least three guns trained on them, flashed his dog-tags to the soldier who approached his window to interrogate him, before advancing into Arkadia once the gate was subsequently opened.

 

Military personnel passed through the border enough times that simply proving you were with the Army was enough to gain access. Re-entry to Polis was a slightly more complicated affair, it was the superior state after all, but that wasn’t Clarke’s present concern.

 

Here she was: Arkadia. The land she’d fought tooth and nail to preserve the independence of, the land her father had given his life for, the land Lexa and her government was struggling day and night to maintain peace with. This was her home, the tiny nation of only a few hundred thousand, a minuscule amount compared to the staggering millions of people occupying Polis.

 

It was a shame she hadn’t been granted the time to explore it, see how much had changed since being incarcerated. Was the scruffy, old apartment complex her family had lived in still standing? Had the Rebellion HQ under the town center been raided yet?

 

Barely a minute passed since entering the nation before Bellamy pulled the Jeep into the parking lot of the keeper of Clarke’s freedom: The Arkadia Corrections Facility. She stared up at it, squinting from the glare of the sun peeking out behind one of its many pillars, drinking in all of its hideous glory.

 

“Home sweet home, eh?” Bellamy mused, nudging Clarke’s arm with his elbow as he brought the car to a halt outside the main entrance. A pang of guilt tugged at Clarke’s heart at the sight of the formidable double-doors that lead into the facility, the doors her own mother had walked through to visit her once a year for an hour maximum. 

 

This was how it felt. She decided immediately she’d have to apologize to Abby when she returned. Her mother didn’t deserve this.

 

This huge, grey building had devoured Clarke’s freedom and the final years of her youth, regurgitating them in the vomit of near daily harassment, nightmares that had once haunted her into the wee hours of the morning, forcing her to lose herself in someone else’s body to forget the damage she’d done to her own.

 

“Let’s get this over with,” Clarke muttered, shoving the door open.

 

Bellamy followed her wordlessly to the door, seeming awkward compared to her determined presence despite his superior height and Military Rank. Clarke shoved through the entrance and surveyed the lobby she’d once been dragged through kicking and screaming, before being stripped down a naked, shivering girl, checked in every cavity, and permanently marked with the ever-visible tag that she was a criminal.

 

There was an arrangement of waiting chairs in the center of the room; all empty. At the reception, a woman in uniform was looking at Clarke and her Guard expectantly. She was a fellow Arkadian, young and seemingly nervous in the presence of the soldiers, the giant machine gun Bellamy had slung over his broad back more than likely setting her on edge. 

 

The blonde approached her, dropping her hands onto the desk more aggressively than was necessary. “I’m here as a visitor,” Clarke stated.

 

The receptionist woman took one look at the dog-tags dangling over Clarke and Bellamy’s chests and nodded slowly. “D-do you have an appointment? Who are you here to see?”

 

“A woman named Niylah. No, I don’t have an appointment but I should be on her visitation list. My name is Clarke Griffin.”

 

At the mention of her notoriously popular name, the woman predictably frowned, shrinking back behind her desk a fraction. “Ex-inmates aren’t cleared for-“

 

“I’m Military Personnel. I’m allowed,” Clarke snapped before biting her tongue to keep from yelling. She heard Bellamy shift awkwardly behind her, probably debating with himself whether to let Clarke continue her intimidation game or correct her bluffing.

 

The woman hastily scanned something on her computer, seemingly looking instead of reading, before rising to her feet. “This way, please,” she stammered, exiting out of the reception and gesturing for the cadets to follow her.

They continued down a narrow hallway that lead out of the lobby, arriving at an airport security-like full-body scanner in front of a metal door, manned by a Grounder guard and a Doberman slouched at his feet.

 

As the trio approached, both man and dog shifted to be more alert, the man rising up from where he had been leaning on the wall, the dog leaping to his feet, ears perked and wet, black nose twitching curiously.

 

“Um, if you’re carrying contraband,” the receptionist began, glancing nervously at Bellamy behind her, “hand them to that guard before you go through security.”

 

On cue, the Grounder held his arms out expectantly. Bellamy moved first, forking his machine gun over to the guard. When Clarke walked to do the same, placing her tiny pistol on top of the other gun, she noticed with a tickle of annoyance the guard’s eyes widening at the sight of the tattoo on her wrist.

 

“Griffin,” he barked, looking up to meet her gaze. “I thought-“

 

“Just go with it,” the receptionist interrupted quickly, much to the guard’s annoyance. Bellamy strolled through the scanner with no trouble, the dog briefly sniffing at his leg before deciding he wasn’t worth the effort and looking to Clarke instead.

 

“Well, go ahead,” the guard spat, waving Clarke through. She slipped through the scanner once; silence. The dog vigorously examined her crotch and thighs with his snout, apparently just as presumptuous as his handler.

 

Finally, the guard patted her down, as if he were disappointed at the lack of reason to throw the Rebel Princess back behind bars. He huffed and slouched against the wall again in defeat after finding nothing. “They’re both clear.”

 

The receptionist nodded, scurrying over to the door behind the scanner like a busy handmaid. She pulled it open, waving the two inside, before rushing to shut them inside and free herself of their threatening company.

 

Clarke took a moment to appreciate the new room; void of furniture save for the chairs that sat lined up in front of the glass that separated visitor from inmate, built onto a desk with a pen, papers, and phone. This was the sight Abby was greeted to before sitting down to face her mess of a daughter, the first time; hollow with fatigue and exhaustion, voice parched, conversation miserable.

 

The second time was after Clarke had hardened to prison’s challenges. It was perhaps even more devastating than the first.

 

“Who’re you here to see?” one of the two guards that were posted at the back of the room asked. They were both exceptionally large, earpieces set in either ear ready to snitch the secrets one might exchange through the phone lines.

 

“Niylah.”

 

The guard nodded, growling something into his earpiece, which he pressed a finger to as he spoke. “take a seat,” he offered. “She’ll be here soon.”

 

Bellamy slapped a supportive hand on Clarke’s shoulder before retreating to the back of the room to offer her some privacy. Clarke flopped down at an empty chair, possibly the same chair her mother had once sat in, looking through the wire-veined glass at an empty chair she herself once occupied.

 

She reflected on these horrific memories for only a few minutes, before the woman she’d requested slunk into the inmate's corresponding visitation room, shoved down by a guard at the chair opposite Clarke. She was just as tall and magnificent as Clarke remembered; long, blonde locks falling onto shoulders clad in orange, matching with the jumpsuit Clarke could remember ripping off her barely three months ago.

 

Perhaps it was just in comparison to Lexa, but she looked older somehow; her cheeks hollowed, bags sagging beneath her eyes. Despite this, she was still undeniably beautiful, especially with the mix of confusion and excitement currently fighting for control of her expression.

 

When she reached for the phone Clarke mirrored her, waiting to hear her muffled voice through it before cracking a nostalgic grin. “Clarke?”

 

“Hey Niylah,” she laughed, unable to maintain her once stone-cold face while watching Niylah’s bright smile. “I missed you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, I was definitely lax on the quality of this one, the next few I'll make up for it though, I promise. Hope you enjoyed it regardless, let me know if you did!


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YOOOO I'm back!! I haven't touched this dinosaur in so long but I was thinking about it all week and I just HAD to come back and finish it. Get hyped because this train is rolling again my friends~

Niylah was in a state. Clarke couldn’t blame her, she would be too if her former lover had just waltzed back into prison after being yanked out so suddenly all those months ago.

Or was it weeks? Clarke couldn’t tell. Time seemed to contort in Lexa’s company, the woman was practically a black hole, corrupting space-time with each step she took. As most authorities in warfare did.

“What are you doing here?” Niylah stammered, rightfully yanking Clarke’s thoughts away from The Commander. She could talk about her later.

“I came to see you, dummy.” 

“Obviously, but why?”

Clarke sighed. In all honesty, she’d come for advice, but it was hardly fair to request it of her without offering her the grace of small talk first. She was rather curious about how life had been, but that didn’t outweigh her severe reluctance to hear the rumours she knew would already be spreading.

She’d left this place as a broken, exhausted criminal. Not the fiery warrior roaring for justice she’d been when she arrived. Yet the Arkadian prison population remained hopeful that their Rebel Princess would deliver vengeance on their behalf, that releasing her into the world marked their victory.

How disappointed they would be to know the truth.

“The Military sucks. I came to see a familiar face.” Clarke finally concluded, not entirely false. “How’s it been in here? Anything changed?”

The Grounder offered a sad smile. “It’s prison. Nothing ever changes.”

Clarke wasn’t the least bit surprised. The most interesting thing that happened community wise in this place was a modification of the cafeteria menu. That, and the rumours, of course.

Niylah couldn’t know about all of them. Hell, she probably only knew a handful. Grounders, allied or not, were the minority in Arkadian prisons, and treated as such. It was the only place you’d see Sky People actively oppressing Grounders.

It was a rather awkward sight Clarke had seen all too many times. Rebels, spiteful and angry, spitting upon the tattooed skin of the people they so despised, without even knowing their crime. It didn’t help that many of the staff were Arkadian themselves, often turning a blind eye to the very treatment they experienced outside the prison walls.

Some of them deserved it. Others, like Niylah, most certainly did not. But one didn’t exactly have time to consider backgrounds in times of war. Grounder, not human. Faces, not names. 

“I figured,” Clarke said at last. It was all she could manage.

“What’s it like out there?”

“Awful. It’s why I came here, I need your advice.” 

Niylah’s gaze fell upon the guards behind Clarke, frowning. “Are you sure you want to talk about that here?”

“Do you remember you and me?” The blonde began anyway, holding strong eye-contact in lieu of a hand to turn Niylah’s face back to her. “What we were?”

While she still looked rather uncomfortable, Niylah smiled and nodded, far too extinct of her shame to blush at the memories of them. “How could I forget?”

“Exactly. It worked so well that… I’ve found someone else for the same thing.”

As Clarke expected, Niylah’s skin didn’t show a single shade of green, her eyes remaining warm and understanding. They’d discussed this plenty of times, there were no strings, no place for jealousy. Yet another reason to be frustrated with Lexa’s treatment. 

“But there's issues,” Clarke continued, her voice lowering to a whisper. “Status issues.”

Niylah offered a smile. “I’ll help you in any way that I can. Always.”

Clarke pressed a hand to the glass, smiling back when she did the same over her own. “Thank you.”

 

///

 

When their allotted time of exactly sixty minutes was over, Clarke stood up with a newfound sense of clarity. Niylah was older than her, not by much, but enough to understand her predicament.

For security reasons, she’d omitted her ‘friend’s’ identity, referring to her only as someone in a much higher position of power than herself. In a Military with a size of almost a quarter of its civilian population, that could be someone even as low as a Sergeant. 

If only it were that simple. No; dramatic, rebellious Griffin had to have it all, had to gun straight for the top. For the woman who not even the verbal ghost of a former lover lingered, the woman who could practically bend steel with her eyes.

Clarke regarded with a smug smile as she waltzed out of the facility; if she really wanted to, she could rend the entire Military into anarchy. It would end with a bullet in her head, sure, but what a ride it would be until then.

The gun in her pocket bounced awkwardly with every step she took towards the Jeep, silently reminding her of its power. It was rather like The Commander, in a sense. Perhaps that was why she’d bestowed it upon her.

Or perhaps it was because of idiots like Bellamy, who was currently glaring at Clarke from the driver’s seat like she was a prisoner of war.

“So this boyfriend of yours-“

“That’s none of your business,” Clarke snapped, the marks on her neck pulsing as her anger did.

Bellamy revved the vehicle into drive, glancing behind him as he reversed out of the carpark and started on the journey back to the other prison around these parts. “Right. I was just gonna ask if I know him.”

“You don’t,” Clarke supplied quickly.

She heard Bellamy huff of laughter from her side. “What, is he a Grounder or something?”

The way he found the mere idea of such a thing amusing made Clarke’s stomach churn for reasons she couldn’t quite decipher. She tried briefly to think of the last serious Grounder/Sky Person relationship she’s seen or heard of and frowned when she couldn’t recall a single thing. “Would it matter if he was?” she asked tentatively, risking a glace from the corner of her eye at her driver.

Bellamy made a thoughtful expression like it was the first time he’d considered something like it. It probably was. People like him tended to follow everyone else without thinking critically, Clarke had decided. “I guess not,” he said after a while, suddenly much more interested in the bland road ahead than meeting Clarke’s gaze. “Not to me, anyway. I’m sure everyone else would have plenty to say about it.”

Clarke winced. She really didn’t need that reminder.

The rest of the drive passed in skin-crawling silence, interrupted only by the cracking of the gravel beneath their tires; and perhaps the odd skeleton here too. Clarke was grateful for Bellamy’s lack of further questions, it gave her more time to ponder Niylah’s advice and justify Lexa to herself, and less time to make up excuses to justify it to anyone else.

Put simply; she wasn’t to get attached. Niylah had looked solemn when instructing this, but they both knew it had to be said. The relationship was doomed from the start; Clarke was no better than a dog on the base, and Lexa simply had no room for anyone in her life to begin with. She had a whole Military to command, she couldn’t afford to waste time on some lowly Arkadian nurse.

It was the sad truth, and Clarke knew it, but before she had time to grieve the relationship that she never even had; the Jeep was rolling to a stop before the base gate. 

She watched Bellamy flash his tags and briefly bargain with the guard to let him in without a thorough security check, as was usually demanded of Sky People. Clarke grimaced at the sight of the fortified battle zone ahead, butterflies swarming her stomach. She’d arrived back, and pretty soon she’d be back in Lexa room’s, and back in her bed.

Surely there was nothing wrong with continuing what they had, right? As long as no strings were attached, she could live with knowing she was merely a distraction from the pain. It wasn’t like she treated the escorts in her life any better. She was always using others. Now that it was her turn to be used, it was taking a little longer to adjust than she would have liked.

Oh well. She could worry about how to explain her predicament to her Commander another time. For now, she was in desperate need of a meal after such an emotionally exhausting day, and the beautiful glow of golden orange shining from behind the thin clouds above indicated dinnertime’s imminent arrival.

The crowds of cadets filing out of their respective buildings would confirm this. Clarke watched the masses, a mix-match of Grounder and Sky Person, hurrying in the same direction as the Jeep. “Everyone seems starving,” she remarked casually, quirking an eyebrow at the sight of three burly Grounder officers, barrelling their way through an anxious-looking cluster of Arkadian cadets that had been practising drills.

“Yeah,” Bellamy agreed, looking equally apprehensive. “Did something happen? There’s a lot of Grounders around.”

That statement shouldn’t have caused the panic in Clarke that it did. But as they drove ever closer to the main quad, the prison yard-like, dull concrete one where the cadet Barracks and mess hall were located, she felt her heart crawling higher and higher into her throat.

“Bellamy, stop,” Clarke demanded once she caught sight of the crowd outside the Barracks entrance, consisting almost entirely of gun-toting Grounders. 

Bellamy obeyed and stopped the vehicle right in the middle of the quad, following Clarke’s lead as the pair tumbled out of the Jeep’s sides and sprinted towards the jostling sea of bodies. As they got closer, Clarke’s legs nearly hardening to stone pillars along the way, she noted the increasing volume of some kind of chant echoing among the grounders.

She couldn’t decipher it; for all the non-verbal languages she knew, Trigedasleng was once she had yet to crack. For safety, mostly. Grounders were suspicious of outsiders who spoke their native tongue. “Juice drain, juice down?” she replayed the chant to Bellamy, who threw her a bewildered look.

They were pressed right up against the back of the cheering crowd now, unable to get a single hand in edgeways among the tightly knit tribe of warriors. She looked over to see Bellamy attempting to shove his way through with little success, but copied him anyway, using her shoulders to bully her way past two soldiers.

Its success was only limited to one person. Clarke pushed aside a tall Grounder woman, whose narrowed eyes widened to bloodthirsty pits once she caught sight of the offender. The next thing Clarke felt were two calloused hands clutched tight around her arms, dragging her most rudely through the crowd to the tune of the woman’s frantic shouting: “We got another one!”

Clarke didn’t even have time to call out for Bellamy’s help before she was at the centre of the circular crowd, tossed to the ground like a piece of discarded rubbish. The chants were surrounding her now, her head ringing from the bullets of everyone’s individual voice clattering against her skull, vision only a blurry mix of the gravel she was lying on and the feet of the crowd.

She lay there, unmoving, for what must have been ten seconds before another sharp pain stabbed through her head and she was suddenly on her knees, yanked up by her hair, clenched in the fist of a solider. From this new elevation, Clarke blinked and finally allowed the sight before her to come into focus.

And what a mess it was. The first thing Clarke noticed was Wells, kneeled in the exact same position she was, shaking hands held innocently up in the air. Their gazes met only for a moment, and Clarke could have sworn her heart broke at the sight of his usually stoic mask, broken into a puffy-eyed, quivering-lip face of pure terror. 

Clarke watched him regard her only for a split second before his attention once again snapped back to the object that seemed to be keeping everyone so enthralled. Clarke didn’t even need to look up to know who it was. She could tell by the cane pressing the ground in front of two long, dress-pants clad legs. She could tell by the gold-coated slide of the gun currently pressed to Well’s sweat-beaded forehead, held by a steady hand.

But she looked up anyway, and there she was. Crowned by the dipping sun as it spread a halo of blood-orange over her head, staring down at her like she was just a pile of maggots on rancid meat. Clarke gulped, both from the stress of Lexa’s heavy gaze, and the cold barrel of a gun now pressed to the side of her head.

“One wrong move and I’ll blow your head off, rebel girl,” the stern voice of Major General Indra ordered, freezing Clarke’s blood to ice. She looked desperately to Lexa, searching her profile for an emotion, an explanation, anything; but was met only with stone.

_“Jus drien, jus daun!”_ the crowd roared again when Lexa looked back to Wells, pulling the safety back off the pistol. Wells’ eyes squeezed shut. Clarke’s mouth gaped open. She hadn’t the slightest clue what was going on, or why she was being kicked and spat on by the angry brutes behind her. 

All she knew was that her best friend was about to die at the hands of her lover, and that her pocket was dragging her entire coat down with how heavy it was. No. This woman was not her lover. This woman was The Commander of a league of discriminatory, excessively-violent pigs. And she was about to kill the only thing that had kept Clarke going, in the horrible prison system she herself allowed.

Clarke Griffin didn’t care about the rebellion anymore. She didn’t care for an uprising. She was no rebel anymore. All she was in that moment was a broken, terrified girl, with a loaded .380 in her pocket and a friend to save.

The next few seconds seemed to pass in slow motion. Clarke acted before Indra or anyone else had a chance to stop her, jolting to her feet and yanking the gun free of its confines, only to point it straight at Lexa’s, no, The Commander’s head.

The General wasn’t the only one to cock their weapon in Clarke’s direction at that point. But the raised hand of the Commander, briefly lifting from her cane, stopped all bullets dead in their chambers. 

“Commander-“

“Silence,” The Commander stated, halting Indra’s panicked declaration at once. Now, the only thing Clarke heard was the blood rushing in her ears and the frantic hammering in her chest.

That was, until The Commander spoke, gun still pressed to Well’s forehead. “Cadet, what is the meaning of this?”

Clarke felt the burn of every single eyeball in the area on her, suddenly burning her throat until she was parched. When she spoke it was more like a croak, but she said it as boldly as possible anyway, her gun aim never staying from The Commander’s head.

“I don’t know what this is, I don’t know what any of this is, but I’m not letting you kill my friend.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I came back with a bang~
> 
> You'll get an explanation for this chapter eventuallyyyyy


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, can I just say a huge thank you to all you guys who left me comments on the last chapter? I genuinely was expecting this fic's readers to have all lost interest and I'd have to start from scratch. It makes me so happy to have your support, I hope you'll continue to enjoy this shitshow of a fic <3

Time and space were frozen to a stand-still at that moment.

One gun on Wells. One on the Commander. And Six on Clarke. It was a miracle her brains weren’t already bloody chunks on the ground.

The only reason was The Commander’s palm, pausing all action from her subordinates. No one could do anything. So, everyone just stood. Watching. Waiting. Whose blood would be split first?

Lexa regarded Clarke with narrowed, challenging eyes. “Are you going to kill me, cadet?” she asked quietly like they were the only two in the area.

Clarke didn’t even know the answer to that question herself. The pistol was heavy in her clammy, shuddering hand, far less experienced than the firm grip Lexa held on her own weapon. “I will,” she began, forcing herself to sound confident enough to be taken seriously, but not so much as to revive her rebel persona. There were Arkadians watching, no doubt. They didn’t need another ‘hero’ to follow. “If you don’t let my friend live.”

“Do you even know why his life is under threat?” Lexa said with a tilt of her head, her braids swooping past behind her shoulders. “Did it occur to you that your precious comrade here might not be as innocent as you want him to be?”

Oh, it had. Wells’ new attitude had been playing on her mind ever since he’d shown her that dreaded poster. In all honestly, Polis had every right to want him dead, and Clarke knew it. But some primal part of her couldn’t let that happen.

She met The Commander’s quizzical gaze with a fierce one of her own. Perhaps she’d forgotten how brutal her hands could be when the time came; since all she’d felt of them recently was caresses into heaven. Lexa’s fingers were remarkably less appealing when they were wrapped around a gun and not between her legs.

When Clarke didn’t speak, Lexa filled the silence with yet another declaration. “Drop your weapons, my people.”

“Heda-“

“Drop your weapons,” she repeated, looking directly at the brave soldier crass enough to disobey her; Indra. Clarke watched from the corner of her eye as the woman glared at both her and Wells, before reluctantly following the others and sending her gun falling to the ground with a clatter.

As if the situation couldn’t get any more outlandish, the next thing Clarke saw was Lexa raising her own gun; and dropping all $3000 odd dollars’ worth of it at her feet. There was a metallic thud as it hit the ground, then silence. Clarke heard nothing but her own frantic breathing.

She saw Wells stir, but he remained on his knees, eyeing up the gun at Lexa’s shoes, only an arm’s reach away. 

“Here we have two rebels,” The Commander yelled suddenly, drawing all eyes back to her. “One of them was caught leaking Polis secrets to Ice Nation, and one of them is trying to defend him.”

“I’m not trying to defend him,” Clarke blurted, trying to process too many things at once. Wells, a traitor of this calibre. In a past life, she might’ve been impressed. “I just don’t want him to die.”

“But you would rather it be your Commander dead in his place?!” Indra snarled, a chorus of barking from the surrounding grounders backing her up.

Lexa raised her hand again, welcoming back the suffocating silence. Clarke wasn’t sure which sound she preferred. “I believe that. You panicked, you just want to save your people. That is what rebels do.”

“I’m not a fucking rebel!” Clarke barked, despite the twitching of her finger over the trigger. 

“Then prove it,” Lexa challenged, stepping forward until the pistol’s barrel was pressed against her chest, much to the dismay of the surrounding officers. “Prove to us that you are not a traitor, and I’ll pardon you.”

Indra was frantic. She shifted awkwardly from foot to foot, her hands clenching to hold the firearm that was no longer in her grasp. “Heda, I beg of you, let me kill her!”

“This cadet saved my life,” Lexa said calmly, jade eyes daring Clarke to disobey her. “She is not what you think she is. And she will prove it.”

To prove she wasn’t a rebel; Clarke had been waiting for this opportunity since the day she got here. But for whom was she even so determined to convince? Her people? Herself? She glanced over to Wells, flicking his eyes back and forth between her and Lexa, nodding his head quickly.

God, even in times like this, the rebellion was a contagious parasite twisting the thoughts of those infected towards it. Wells was meant to be on her side, he was the one who understood what it was like to toe the line between traitor and terrorist. Now, he was just another pawn on Pike’s chessboard of naïve kids with guns and death wishes.

And if he was her enemy, then that meant she had new allies. One of which, was currently only a single finger flick away from being dead at her feet. “What will it be, Clarke?” Lexa asked, so only she could hear. Clarke shook her head, face contorting to keep the tears from flowing. She knew what had to be done.

This was what war was. Pick your side. Kill or be killed. This was what being a criminal was. Trial after trial. The eyes of the jury surrounding you from every direction. The fight never actually ended, Clarke realized. She was no safer here than she was out there.

But it helped if you had allies; the right kind. And there was only one way she could secure that at this moment.

Clarke locked eyes with Wells and held her breath. He perked up, anticipating the death of the Commander he thought was about to occur. Unfortunately, the rebel princess had vanished a long time ago. It was Clarke Griffin that had aimed the gun at him. It was Clarke Griffin that had squeezed the trigger.

_Bang._

Clarke saw the cloud of red puff out of the back of Wells’ head before she saw the life be snatched from his eyes. She watched his body slump down to the ground, a pool of blood spilling out from the gaping hole she’d left oozing on his forehead. Only when the image of her best friend’s corpse had fully melded to her mind, did Clarke let her weapon slip from her fingers.

She didn’t hear anything. She didn’t see anything. Not Lexa’s orders, not Indra’s grab for her gun, and certainly not the butt end of it when it slammed into her face, replacing the image of Wells’ lifeless body with a screen of black. Her body was the next to fall, right after his.

 

///

 

Clarke had felt this feeling before. When she saw her father’s profile appear on the tiny box TV in her family’s old apartment, nameless, just another grey face among the others at the scene. She’d known he wasn’t coming home the very moment he’d walked out the door only hours earlier, but somehow, it had taken seeing him on the news to finally break her.

That night, all those years ago, she’d cried with her mother until there were no tears left and her sobs came in dry chokes. That had been the last time she’d really cried. No other time mattered. There was simply nothing left.

Right now, was no exception. Clarke held her head in her hands, elbows pressed to the metal table she was sat at, willing the tears to fall but they didn’t. They never did. Clarke had seen too much, lost too much. How tragic, that the death of one of the few people she had left wasn’t enough to make her cry. 

Maybe it was just too much to process right now. After all, Wells was hardly the only thing weighing on her heavy mind. His ghost tugged at her heartstrings, but it was Lexa that tortured her brain. And by the looks of things, her body was quite possibly next.

Clarke looked up to finally examine the room she’d woken up in. She couldn’t recall anything between now and being knocked out by Indra; they must have transported her here unconscious. She was sat in a seat not unlike the ones the recruits had sat in prior to division assignment. Before her was a table. Surrounding her were four grey, stone walls; with a steel door positioned in the one directly in front of her.

Judging by the cracked red dried on the walls and the musty odour that hung in the air, this was an interrogation room. Which meant the next person to walk through that door would not be here to talk, but to get Clarke talking.

Clarke couldn’t decide what was worse; the fact that killing her best friend didn’t pain her enough to warrant tears, or that she wasn’t the slightest bit scared of being tortured. After all, how could anything be worse than the damage already done? Both to herself, and her people.

Wells was just another corpse atop her body count now. She told herself that, trying to peg him as just another casualty, someone in the wrong place at the wrong time. Clarke had forgotten the faces of all the people she’d seen fall at her hand; half the time she didn’t even look. That was what Pike had told her. Shoot first. Look never. 

Pike. This was all his fault. Pike made Wells leak those secrets. Pike had pushed those guns, those grenades into Clarke’s hands. He was the reason she was captured. He was the reason she was here.

She hated him. She hated the Rebellion. She hated this war. She hated herself.

Right at the moment Clarke could have started tearing her own hair out, the great metal door in front of her opened with a groan, and Lexa’s figure slipped inside and closed it behind her. Clarke let her arms fall flat on the table to look up at her, face entirely too neutral.

For several long seconds, neither woman said anything. Lexa held both hands on her cane in front of her, back straight, chin held high. Clarke didn’t tremble in her terrifying presence. Compared to the terror her own demons were taunting her with right now, Lexa was nothing.

“You’re lucky to be alive,” Lexa began solemnly.

Clarke only scoffed, glaring at Lexa for the very first time in the way most other Arkadians did. Like she wanted her dead. “So are you.”

Lexa blinked, taking a moment to gather her reply. Clarke smirked at the sight. She loved striking The Commander’s nerves. “If you wanted to kill me, you would have.”

Clarke’s smile faded. That was true. She’d had the opportunity to wreak chaos, at the cost of her own life, and that of every other Arkadian within a one-hundred-mile radius. If Lexa fell, so did the alliance. It was that simple. To those like Pike, it was that simple to get what they wanted. To Clarke, it was that simple to end up squashed along with her nation.

When she didn’t answer, Lexa spoke again. “You’ve put me in a very difficult situation, Clarke,” Lexa sighed, bringing a hand to rub at her temples.

“What a bother, another troublesome rebel getting in the way. Might as well kill me.”

“Would you please cut it out?!” Lexa snapped, risking a step forward on her bad leg only to wince at the obvious spike of pain.

Instinctively, Clarke’s body nudged forward in concern, but she remained seated. Lexa seemed to have recovered on her own. “I know you, Clarke. This isn’t you.”

“You don’t know me at all,” Clarke snapped, the chair squeaking beneath her as she rose abruptly to her feet. “Did you think you could just murder one of my friends and then expect me to be in your room the same night like nothing happened?!”

“I never said that,” Lexa answered coolly. “I knew it would be a blow to you. But I know you’re smart, and you’d understand. I did what had to be done.”

Clarke hated this more than anything. She hated how Lexa had her all figured out, when they’d only been in each other’s company a few weeks. She hated how much of her past Lexa was entitled to without her consent. She hated how she knew exactly how to use it.

“'What had to be done?'” she barked, stalking her way towards her commander, who stood stiff as a pole. “What, like leaving Anya behind when you know we could have saved her?”

An assumption. But apparently, an accurate one, judging by Lexa’s tiny recoil and sharp intake of breath. “She died in the explosion.”

Clarke stepped even closer until they were toe-to-toe. Somehow, staring into those soulful green forests Lexa saw with, the dim glow of the fluorescent tube above her acting like a rising sun behind the trees; conjured up more feelings than Clarke knew how to place at one time.

When all was said and done, friends dead and blame placed, who was at the helm of it all? Was it Pike, radicalizing mere children like her for a cause that was doomed to begin with? Or was it Lexa, feigning to sympathize with them while turning around to murder them at the slightest whisper of treason?

“Then what about those seven other recruits you killed? Six of them were innocent kids trying to serve their country, just like you.”

“Clarke, that’s enough.”

The blonde continued, tears inexplicable pricking her eyes, now of all times. Clarke choked them back, shaking her head in tiny, desperate increments. “How many more, Lexa? How many more have to die until you realize you can’t just act like nothing even matters!”

Clarke was really hoping Lexa would break before she did. All the pieces were there, she saw the conflicted pain in her usually calm features. But she had been the one to crumble, falling into Lexa’s open arms as the cane clattered to the ground between them.

And finally, finally, she sobbed. For Wells, for her father, for all the lives this war had selfishly ripped away, and all the broken people like her left behind to mourn them. The tears wracked her body, wetting Lexa’s pristine Commander’s jacket, but she didn’t seem to care. Clarke felt her lean back onto the door to avoid toppling over, one hand rubbing up and down Clarke’s back soothingly.

They hadn’t been this close before. Sure, they’d been intimate like this in the past, but this was different. Despite the knife edge her life was currently precariously placed on, Clarke felt so safe in Lexa’s arms, wrapped in the smooth, pine scent she could smell on her neck.

After what seemed like forever, it was finally enough to calm Clarke down. Just enough for Lexa to push her back and look deep into tear-soaked eyes. “We don’t have time for this right now. My people want you dead for what you did back there.”

Clarke couldn’t blame them. “So, what do we do?”

“You’ll come with me tonight to an assembly. Many high-ranking officers will be there. You’re going to become our mole.”

“Your… what?’

Lexa kicked her cane back up and quickly braced her hands on it, like she couldn’t bear to hold Clarke for a second longer. Clarke shivered at the absence of touch like she’d just been stripped of a blanket in a blizzard. “To justify that kill to your people, you will tell them that you did it to keep him quiet. You thought we would torture him, so you killed him before we could. Because he knows Rebellion secrets, that you don’t want to be leaked.”

Clarke didn’t entirely follow, but she nodded anyway. 

“Make the Rebels think you’re on their side. Find out their secrets and give them to Polis. It’s the only way we’ll let you live.”

And suddenly, it became as clear as Clarke’s fuzzy mind would let it. Lexa turned to pull the door open, gesturing for Clarke to follow her out. “I’ll explain more on the way. Dry your tears, look impressive. You’re about to become the most valuable Sky Person we’ve got.”

Clarke followed Lexa out on gelatinous legs, feeling like she might need a cane of her own to support the dead weight that was her body. She was going back in.

The Rebel Princess would return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Christ, what a mess

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on tumblr @god-heda to request fics, talk about them and just general banter :D


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